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u..i'/-R3tTr  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

8*N  DiEQO 


presented  to  the 

LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  •  SAN  DIEGO 

by 
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donor 


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OR 


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THE  CEDAR  STAR 


He  stood  above  her,  leaning  upon  the  hand  placed  on  the  window-frame 
over  her  head.— Page  166. 


THE  CEDAR 


BY 

MARY  E.  MANN 

AUTHOR  OP 

'SUSANNAH,"    "THERE  WAS  ONCE  A  PRINCE,' 

"WHEN   ARNOLD  COMES  HOME," 

ETC.,  ETC, 


NEW  YORK 

R.  F.  FENNO  &  COMPANY 

112   FIFTH  AVENUE 
I.ONDON  :    HENRY  &  COMPANY 


Copyright,  189? 

BY 
R.  F.  FBJ«*0  &  COMPANY 


CONTENTS. 


PART  I. 

PAGE 

CHAPTER  I. 
BETTY  AND  HER  FAMILIAES 7 

CHAPTER  II. 
THE  CURATE'S  FRIEND 18 

CHAPTER  III. 
VIOLET  BELTON 27 

CHAPTER  IV. 
BETTY  MAKES  A  CONFESSION 36 

CHAPTER  V. 
HABEINGAY  WITHDRAWS 46 

CHAPTER  VI. 
UNCLE  EUSTACE  INTERVENES 55 

CHAPTER  VII. 
GIRLS  WANT  A  MOTHER 64 

CHAPTER  Vin. 

BETTY'S  DARK  HOUR 76 

CHAPTER  IX. 
"MINE  OWN  FAMILIAR  FRIEND"  ....  .83 


PART  II. 

CHAPTER  I. 
AFTER  TEN  YEARS « 95 

CHAPTER  II. 
A  HOME-COMING  .  • 112 

CHAPTER  III. 
FRICTION 122 

CHAPTER  IV. 

"WE  FOUR" , 128 

(3) 


4  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  V. 

"  WHERE  ABE  THE  SPRINGS  OF  LONG  AGO  ?  " 143 

CHAPTER  VI. 

VIOLET'S  HUSBAND 156 

CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  CEDAR  STAB 164 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

His  FORTUNE  is  THE  GBEAT  PERHAPS 170 

CHAPTER  IX. 

A  CONTRADICTION  STILL 180 

CHAPTER  X. 

THE  HARRINGAYS  AT  HOME 190 

CHAPTER  XI. 

I  WONDER  WHY  You  CAME 199 

CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  MOONLIGHT  SONATA 207 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

"I  PITY  TAKE  ON  ALL  POOR  WOMEN" 218 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
I  HAD  MY  WAY  .          .231 


PAET  III. 

CHAPTER  I. 
"INEVITABLE  AS  DEATH" 245 

CHAPTER  II. 
THE  WALKER  CONVERSAZIONE 255 

CHAPTER  III. 
A  WOMAN'S  No 267 

CHAPTER  IV. 
"SHE  GAVE  ME  HERSELF,  O  EARTH,  O  SKY!  "  ....  278 

CHAPTER  V. 
AN  UNMOUNTED  PHOTOGRAPH 290 

CHAPTER  VI. 

"  BILL,  You  MUST  TAKE  ME  HOME  " 303 

CONCLUSION  .  .  305 


PART  I. 

'  YET  this  thing  learn  of  me: 
The  sweet  hours  fair  and  free 

That  we  have  had  of  yore, 
The  fair  things  we  did  see, 
The  linked  melody 

Of  waves  upon  the  shore 
That  rippled  in  their  glee, 
Are  not  lost  utterly 

Though  they  return  no  more." 


THE  CEDAR  STAR. 


CHAPTER  I. 

BETTY   AND   HER   FAMILIARS. 

ON  three  sides  of  the  schoolroom  table  at  Blow 
Weston  Rectory  the  rector's  three  little  daughters 
sat.  On  the  fourth  sat  Miss  Walker  their  governess. 

A  muddy  complexion  had  Miss  Walker,  and  her 
mud-colored  hair  was  dressed  in  a  hundred  little  curls 
above  her  little  brow  and  arranged  in  sleek,  moist- 
looking  coils  above  her  mud-colored  neck.  She  had, 
besides,  a  remarkably  short  nose,  and  her  very  wide 
mouth  was  stretched  to  its  utmost  limit  this  afternoon 
in  yawn  upon  yawn. 

With  one  bony  hand  she  clung  to  the  edge  of  the 
table  to  preserve  her  equilibrium  in  the  chair  she  had 
tilted  upon  its  hind  legs,  in  the  other  she  held  a  long 
pencil  with  which  she  tenderly  stirred  the  multitudi- 
nous curls. 

Presently  her  mouth  shut  with  an  audible  snap,  her 
chair  came  down  on  all  fours,  she  held  up  the  pencil 
to  command  attention. 

"  Silence,  if  you  please  ?  "  she  said,  "  I  think  it  is 
your  papa's  voice  I  can  hear  in  the  hall." 

Three  pairs  of  eyes  looked  up  at  Miss  Walker  and 
fixed  themselves  with  three  different  expressions  on 

(7) 


8  THE  CEDAR  STAR. 

her  face.  The  lady  gave  an  eager  glance  out  of  the 
window  and  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"  A  cloud  is  coming  up  over  the  blue.  I  trust  your 
papa  is  not  going  to  venture  out  without  his  umbrella," 
she  said,  and  disappeared  through  the  door. 

Returning,  after  the  lapse  of  a  few  minutes,  she 
found  the  heads  of  her  three  pupils  bent  conscien- 
tiously above  their  books. 

"  Your  papa  does  not  think  it  will  rain,"  she  volun- 
teered. "  He  will  not  be  prevailed  on  to  take  his 
umbrella." 

She  resumed  her  place  again,  and  her  occupation 
of  yawning,  and  of  tilting  her  chair,  and  of  touching 
up  the  curls  of  her  head,  while  her  eyes  were  fixed  on 
the  April  sky  as  seen  through  the  schoolroom  window. 

Suddenly  the  titter,  which  Ian,  the  3Toungest  of  the 
Reverend  Eustace  Jervois's  motherless  little  daugh- 
ters, had  endeavored  to  repress  by  means  of  a  chubby 
hand  tightly  prisoning  a  rosebud  mouth,  burst  forth. 
The  gooseberry  eyes  of  Miss  "Walker  relinquished  the 
celestial  contemplation  for  that  of  the  frightened  fat 
face  and  followed  the  direction  involuntarily  taken  by 
the  sweet,  traitorous  eyes.  They  fell  upon  a  small 
oblong  of  drawing-paper  laid  before  her  on  the  table. 
The  mud  complexion  assumed  a  dull  red  hue,  waters 
of  anger  suffused  the  gooseberry  eyes  : 

"  Who  has  dared  to  do  this  ? "  she  demanded  in 
shrill  tones  of  wrath. 

The  two  elder  children,  bent  above  their  books, 
muttered  the  words  of  their  task  with  renewed  energy. 

"  I  know  very  well  who  has  done  it,"  Miss  Walker 
cried.  "  But  I  choose  to  be  told.  If  confession  is  not 
at  once  made,  you  will  be  punished  severely,  and  you 
will  all  be  punished  together." 


BETTY  AND  HER  FAMILIARS.  9 

The  threat  proved  too  much  for  the  weak  heart  of 
fat  Ian  :  "  It  wasn't  me  ;  nor  yet  it  wasn't  Emily," 
she  ventured.  She  had  no  desire  to  betray  Betty,  but 
no  notion  of  suffering  for  Betty's  sins.  She  quailed 
before  the  flaming  contempt  of  the  elder  sister's  eyes 
and  at  once  put  herself  on  the  defensive,  appealing  to 
Miss  Walker  in  tearful  tones.  "  1  haven't  told  any 
tales,  have  I?  I  didn't  say  Betty  made  the  picture, 
did  I,  Miss  Walker  ? " 

Miss  Walker,  terrible  in  hysteric  wrath,  had  risen 
from  her  chair. 

"  I  will  not  stay  here  to  be  insulted,"  she  cried,  "  I 
never  met  with  insult  till  I  came  to  this  house.  I 
will  not  be  insulted.  I  have  always  had  little  ladies 
to  deal  with  before.  You  are  not  little  ladies.  You 
are  three  little  vulgar-minded  wretches.  You  ought 
to  have  improved  under  my  example.  You  haven't 
improved.  I  wash  my  hands  of  you.  I  leave  you  to 
your  papa  to  punish.  The  instant  that  he  enters  the 
house  I  go  to  him  and  demand  that  you  shall  be  pun- 
ished." 

As  she  bounced  from  the  room,  carrying  the  offend- 
ing sheet  of  paper,  Ian  burst  into  bitter  weeping,  and 
a  look  of  alarm  crept  into  Emily's  blue  eyes.  Betty 
shut  the  book  before  her  and  sprang  from  her  place. 

"  Come  on,"  she  said.  "  Let's  go  before  she  catches 
father,  or  before  she  repents.  Come  on,  Emily.  Ian, 
you  are  a  sneak.  We  won't  have  you  go  and  cry  to 
Miss  Walker,  and  ask  to  be  forgiven." 

But  in  spite  of  the  prohibition,  when,  two  minutes 
later,  the  elder  children  ran  through  the  rectory 
garden  little  Ian  was  not  far  behind.  She  understood 
that  having  come  under  the  shadow  of  Betty's  wrath 
she  might  not  presume  to  walk  at  either  sister's  side, 


10  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

or  to  address  her,  but  Ian  never  knew  resentment  or 
how  to  take  punishment  with  dignity.  She  kept  up  a 
conversation  with  the  black  kitten  she  had  brought  in 
her  arms  and  bided  her  time. 

The  three  little  scarlet-robed  figures — for  the  chil- 
dren had  not  waited  to  pull  off  their  schoolroom  pina- 
fores, but  had  picked  up  their  garden  hats,  called  to 
their  dog,  caught  the  kitten  and  bolted — ran  across 
the  lawn,  through  shrubbery  and  kitchen  garden,  to 
that  part  of  the  globe  which  was  called  the  church 
meadow.  They  passed  the  church  and  the  church- 
yard, whose  most  noticeable  monument  was  the  re- 
cently erected  tall  marble  cross,  bearing  their  own 
mother's  name,  and  made  their  way  to  a  small  house 
placed  in  the  corner  of  the  same  meadow.  It  was  a 
quite  modern  house  of  a  very  ornate  architecture.  Its 
chimneys  and  frequent  gables  were  almost  painfully 
picturesque,  its  windows  showed  the  maximum  of 
mullion  and  the  minimum  of  glass,  their  balconies  of 
ponderous  masonry  scarcely  affording  standing  room 
for  a  man  and  a  flower-pot  at  one  and  the  same  time, 
the  heavy  roofed  porch  appeared  much  larger  than 
the  hall  it  opened  into,  the  residence  of  the  Reverend 
William  Carlyon,  curate  of  Blow  Weston. 

"  It  is  Friday  afternoon,  his  sermon  time,"  Betty  re- 
membered. 

"  Perhaps  he  won't  see  us,"  Emily  feared. 

"  When  did  he  ever  not  see  us  if  we  wanted  him  to  ? " 
demanded  the  eldest  child  with  scorn.  She  climbed 
the  small  iron  gate  that  led  between  heavy  stone 
pillars  to  the  curate's  tiny  garden — the  little  Jer- 
voises  held  it  a  shame  to  open  a  gate  that  could  be 
climbed.  Emily  fell  as  she  followed  suit,  but  picked 
herself  up  and  tried  to  look  as  if  she  hadn't. 


BETTY  AND  HER  FAMILIARS.  11 

"  Emily's  knees  are  bleeding,"  Ian,  having  safely 
landed  her  own  fat  person,  remarked  cheerfully  to  the 
long  haired  terrier  waddling  at  her  side.  "  Chip, 
Emily's  knees  are  bleeding." 

"  Chip  is  not  to  have  the  disgrace  of  being  talked 
to  by  a  sneak,"  said  Betty  with  scorn,  and  called  the 
dog  to  her  in  sharp  tones  of  command,  of  which  Chip 
took  not  the  slightest  notice. 

"  Hi,  Chip !  Mr.  Chipley !  "  Betty  called  with  quite 
unnecessary  loudness,  and  with  her  eyes  on  the 
window  before  which  they  stood,  while  Ian,  putting 
the  black  kitten  she  carried  upon  its  hind  legs,  com- 
pelled the  reluctant  animal  to  jig  to  a  tune  of  her 
own  invention,  accompanied  by  loud  mews  of  dis- 
satisfaction, and  while  her  kitten  went  through  its 
unwilling  performance,  Ian  also  kept  watch  upon  the 
window,  whose  tiny  balcony  was  approached  by  three 
squat  stone  steps  from  the  gravel  path  on  which  the 
children  stood.  Emily,  with  the  futile  boldness  that 
now  and  again  emphasized  the  extreme  timidity  of  her 
nature,  flung  a  feeble  stone  in  the  same  direction. 

The  florid-faced  young  curate,  sitting  with  his  back 
to  the  window,  biting  at  the  tail  of  his  quill  pen  with 
a  frown  of  anxious  concentration  upon  his  brow,  threw 
up  his  head  with  a  sigh  as  much  of  relief  as  of  im- 
patience. He  was  not  so  very  reluctant  to  relinquish 
the  work  in  hand.  He  got  up  and  opened  the  window 
and  appeared  upon  the  few  feet  of  balcony,  looking 
down  upon  the  little  girls  in  their  scarlet  pinafores, 
their  battered  black  hats.  He  put  his  hands  in  his 
trousers  pockets  and  stood  there,  saying  nothing, 
shaking  his  head  at  his  visitors  with  a  broad  smile 
upon  his  youthful,  pleasant  face. 

"  We've    got    something    to   tell   you,   something 


12  THE  CEDAR  STAR. 

glorious ! "  Betty  cried,  her  feet  planted  apart,  hei 
hands  behind  her  back,  an  eager  face  set  in  roughened 
ruddy  clouds  of  hair,  lifted  to  his. 

"  Don't  you  see  darling  Paulie  ?  He  wants  to  come 
in,"  said  Ian,  dancing  the  black  kitten  with  vigorous 
steps  in  the  young  man's  direction. 

"  I  thought  I  said  I  would  not  be  bothered  with  you 
on  Fridays  ? "  the  curate  reminded  them. 

"  Yet  do  be  bothered  with  us ! "  implored  Betty, 
while  Emily  gave  a  gurgling  laugh,  and  Ian,  with 
"  darling  Paulie  "  still  dangling  from  its  forepaws 
to  the  ground,  having  mounted  the  steps,  now 
slipped  into  the  open  window  beneath  young  Carl- 
yon's  arm. 

She  was  quickly  followed  by  the  other  children  and 
Chip  the  long  haired  terrier. 

The  curate  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  table  where 
the  sermon-paper  lay,  swinging  one  long  loose  leg. 
He  felt  in  his  coat  pocket  for  his  pipe,  eyeing  the 
little  intruders  as  he  filled  it.  Ian,  who  had  squeezed 
close  to  his  side,  held  up  the  black  kitten  to  his 
face. 

"  Kiss  darling  Paulie,"  she  entreated. 

"  Paul  be  hanged ! '  said  the  curate  ;  but  when  he 
had  lit  his  pipe  he  took  the  child,  kitten  and  all  upon 
his  knee.  At  this  mark  of  favor  Betty  grew  crimson 
with  jealous  disapproval. 

"  A  sneak  isn't  the  kind  of  a  person  to  sit  on  people's 
knees.  lan's  been  sneaking  :  she  sneaked  to  Miss 
Walker.  I  thought  you  hated  a  sneak,  Billy." 

"  And  who's  sneaking  now,  pray  ?  "  demanded  the 
unmoved  curate,  pulling  at  his  pipe. 

"  It's  different  when  Betty  does  it,"  declared  Emily 
in  perfect  good  faith,  "  Betty's  not  afraid  of  Miss 


BETTY  AND  HER  FAMILIARS.  13 

Walker  or  of  anyone.     She  does  not  do  it  to  screen 
herself." 

"  I  only  said  I  didn't  draw  the  picture,"  protested 
the  sneak  in  the  safe  shelter  of  Carlyon's  arms,  "  and 
I  didn't  draw  it." 

"  I  drew  it,"  said  Betty.  "  I  came  to  tell  you. 
Miss  Walker  will  have  to  go  now.  When  they  com- 
plain to  father  they're  done  for.  He  puts  up  with 
them  when  they  try  to  be  amusing ;  he  hides  when 
they  run  after  him  with  umbrellas  and  sticks  ;  but 
when  they  go  to  him  and  say  that  unless  an  alteration 
is  made  in  the  behavior  of  the  children — you  know 
how  they  go  on — father  puts  up  his  hands  to  his  head, 
and  says,  '  Oh  go,  my  good  woman  I  go.  For 
Heaven's  sake,  go ! ' ' 

The  imitation  of  the  elder's  irritable  and  worried 
manner  was  excellent,  and  Carlyon  laughed. 

"  How  many  does  this  make  in  the  last  year  ?  "  he 
asked. 

Betty  shook  her  head  quickly.  "  We  don't  count 
them,  and  don't  you  count  them,  please,  Billy,"  she 
said. 

"  You'll  be  punished,  you  know,  and  you  deserve  it, 
Betty." 

"  Then  they  shouldn't  make  love  to  my  father,"  said 
Betty. 

"  They  shouldn't  make  love  to  our  father,"  echoed 
the  two  smaller  girls. 

"  We  hate  all  women,"  said  Betty,  "  men  are  nicer. 
I  shall  hate  myself  when  I  am  a  woman,  only  I  shall 
be  of  a  sensibler  kind.  I  shall  never  wear  my  petti- 
coats longer  than  my  calves,  and  I  shall  always  keep 
my  hair  hanging  down  my  back." 

"  Won't  Betty  look  a  darling  ?  "  inquired  the  in- 


14  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

gratiating  Ian.  "  Cousin  Violet  looked  a  darling  till 
she  stuck  up  her  hair,  and  now  she's  frightful." 

"  Billy's  in  love  with  Violet,"  said  Emily,  with  her 
dove-like  temerity.  "  I  know,  because  Susan  told  me 
when  she  put  me  to  bed." 

"  Susan's  an  ass,"  said  Billy.  "  Your  confounded 
Paulie  is  creeping  down  the  back  of  my  neck,  Ian,"  he 
said.  He  had  turned  very  red  and  cross,  and  no 
wonder,  with  the  kitten  in  that  position !  "  Now,  be 
off,  all  of  you,  and  leave  me  in  peace.  I've  got  my 
sermon  to  write." 

"  Don't  do  it,"  advised  Betty,  unmovedly  keeping 
her  ground,  "  don't  preach  one.  Everyone  would  be 
awfully  glad.  We  can't  go,  Billy.  You  asked  us  to 
tea  our  first  holiday.  We've  come." 

"  Tea  isn't  for  hours." 

"  Tea  could  be." 

"  We'll  wait  till  Caroline  comes  in." 

"  No,  no.  We  don't  want  Caroline.  Only  you. 
Me  to  make  the  tea — and  only  you  !  " 

"  Betty  to  make  the  tea,"  said  the  others,  "  and  only 
Billy  I " 

Of  course  they  had  their  way.  What  could  a 
young  man,  kind  as  a  woman  and  simple  as  a  child, 
do  against  the  tyranny  of  the  imperious  woman-child 
and  her  satellites  ? 

"  It  was  you  who  spoilt  me,"  Betty  used  to  reproach 
him  in  after  years.  "  You  should  have  beaten  me 
daily,  and  have  shown  me  what  a  selfish,  domineer- 
ing beast  I  was.  I  hadn't  even  a  notion  of  it  in  those 
days.  You  should  have  told  me." 

But  to  have  been  stern  and  repressive  was  as  im- 
possible to  the  man  as  to  be  yielding  and  self-forget- 
ful to  the  child  :  and  so  Betty's  education,  so  far  as  it 


BETTY  AND  HER  FAMILIARS.  15 

lay  in  the  curate's  hand,  was  neglected,  and  Betty 
went  on  to  her  appointed  end. 

The  mistress  of  the  house  being  away,  the  children 
did  not  as  usual  confine  themselves  to  the  study,  but 
ran  riot  over  house  and  garden.  The  two  younger 
ones  made  at  length  a  temporary  settlement  in  the 
kitchen,  presided  over  by  Hannah,  a  dragoon  of  a  wo- 
man with  a  manish  figure  and  a  moustache,  of  whom 
the  rest  of  the  village  stood  in  awe. 

"  Master,  he  do  have  the  patience  of  Jobe  along  o' 
them  children,  for  sure,"  Hannah  was  wont  to  say; 
but  Hannah,  herself,  in  spite  of  a  temper  as  formid- 
able as  her  moustache,  was  generally  patient  with 
them,  too.  She  placed  them  now  on  two  little  stools 
before  the  fire  and  set  them  to  make  buttered  toast 
for  tea. 

Betty  in  the  study  had  climbed  the  library  steps 
and  pulled  from  the  topmost  shelf  of  the  bookcase, 
where  Hannah  had  vainly  endeavored  to  hide  them 
out  of  her  reach,  a  heap  of  unbound  numbers  of 
Punch.  She  sat  on  the  top  of  the  steps  with  the 
papers  on  her  lap,  letting  the  leaves  of  each  number 
flutter  to  the  ground  as  she  proceeded  with  the 
next. 

"  I  shall  draw  this  kind  of  pictures  myself  when  I'm 
older,"  she  announced  without  lifting  her  eyes  from 
the  page.  "  Only  I  shall  want  some  one  to  think 
up  the  jokes  to  put  underneath." 

"  Perhaps,  by  the  time  you're  old  enough  to  do  the 
illustrations,  you'll  have  thought  up  one  or  two  your- 
self," the  curate  said  with  a  grin. 

He  watched  her  for  a  minute,  dimnly  conscious,  all 
inartistic  as  he  was,  of  the  pretty  picture  she  made 
perched  upon  his  library  steps,  her  vivid  face  and 


16  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

flaming  hair  shining  out  of  the  dark  corner  of  the 
room  like  an  old  portrait  from  its  sombre  background. 

u  Did  you  choose  your  '  pinny  '  to  match  your  hair, 
Betty  ?  "  he  inquired. 

The  color  of  the  abundant,  crisply  curling  hair  was 
a  sore  subject  with  the  eldest  little  Jervois.  The 
kitchen  prejudice  against  a  shade  of  red  in  the  tresses 
is  well  known,  and  Betty's  critics  had  been  mostl}' 
from  that  region.  She  shot  an  angry  glance  from 
eyes  greenly  grey  in  the  sunlight,  but  black  as  night 
when  shining  from  that  shadowy  corner  upon  the 
young  man. 

"  My  hair  is  the  color  of  my  cousin  Violet's,"  she 
declared. 

"  Hers  is  five  shades  darker,"  protested  the  cu- 
rate. "  Yours  is  a  match  with  the  head  of  Carrotty 
Parkin's  that  blows  the  organ.  I  asked  him  yester- 
day why  he  didn't  get  a  wife,  and  he  said  none  would 
have  him  because  of  the  color  of  his  hair.  He  was 
very  sad  about  it,  poor  chap.  He  said  he'd  asked 
dozens.  I  expect  you'll  meet  with  the  same  rebuffs." 

Betty  gave  him  an  evil  glance  ;  "  Ladies  don't  have 
to  ask.  Didn't  you  even  know  that  ?  Were  you 
waiting  for  one  to  ask  you  ?  Gentlemen  go  down  on 
their  knees  to  them  and  clasp  their  hands  and  say : 
1  Oh,  my  dear  Violet,  won't  you  be  my  bride?  ' ' 

"  And  she  smiles  down  at  him,"  pursued  the  curate 
hurriedly,  "  and  says, '  how  much  have  you  got,  sir.' 
And  he  replies  '  I  have  ninety  pounds  a  year,  and  a 
house  rent  free,  and  an  inordinate  love  of  'baccj',  and 
a  pig  of  a  red-head  Fiend,  called  Betty,  who — ' " 

Betty  broke  in  remorselessl}',  upon  his  unwontedly 
imaginative  discourse  ;  she  propped  her  elbow  on  the 
remaining  Punches  on  her  knee  and  laid  her  chin  in 


BETTY  AND  HER  FAMILIARS.  17 

her  hand,  and  looked  at  the  young  man  with  con- 
sidering eyes. 

"  You  aren't  really  in  love  with  Violet,  are  you  ?  " 
she  asked,  confidentially.  "  I  said  to  Susan  you'd  have 
told  me  if  you  had  been." 

"  Asked  your  consent  first,  of  course." 

"  Then  why  do  you  turn  red  when  her  name  is 
mentioned?  That's  what  I  want  to  ask  you.  That's 
what  I  said  to  Cousin  Violet  ;  I  said, '  if  he  isn't  in 
love  with  you — and  I  know  he  isn't — why  does  he 
look  so  ridiculous  ?  '  " 

The  curate  laughed  uncomfortably.  "  To  which 
flattering  well  chosen  speech  what  did  Miss  Belton 
reply  ? "  he  inquired. 

But  Betty  had  not  burdened  her  memory  with  the 
reply.  "  Violet's  not  clever  a  bit,"  she  said.  "  I 
think  she's  silly.  If  I  was  a  man  I  wouldn't  fall  in 
love  with  a  silly.  It's  worse  than  anything.  It's 
worse  than — " 

"  A  carrotty  head,"  young  Carlyon  said.  "  Enough 
of  the  tender  passion.  Come  down.  If  you  are  go- 
ing to  have  tea,  it's  time  you  had  it,  and  went  home." 


18  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  CURATE'S  FRIEND. 

WHEN  the  curate  and  his  sister  went  across  to  the 
Rectory  to  dine  that  evening,  they  found  Edward 
Harringay  already  established  there.  Mr.  Jervois, 
who  had  driven  into  Edraundsbury,  had  brought  the 
young  man  back  to  dine  and  sleep.  He  had  been  a 
school  and  college  friend  of  William  Carlyon's,  and 
Mr.  Jervois  counted  it  a  happy  thought  to  have  se- 
cured him  as  fourth  at  the  dinner-table. 

He  was  a  man  on  whom  exalted  hopes  had  been 
built ;  he  said  of  himself  with  a  cynical  cheerfulness, 
probably  assumed,  that  he  had  consistently  disap- 
pointed them  all.  He  was  bound  to  be  a  failure 
through  other  peoples'  extravagant  ambition  rather 
than  his  own  fault.  It  had  been  just  as  well  to  do  it 
thoroughly  while  he  was  about  it,  he  declared. 
Neither  at  the  private  school  at  Edmundsbury,  among 
the  quite  ordinary  small  boys  of  his  native  place  had 
he  distinguished  himself,  nor  at  Marlborough,  nor  at 
Balliol.  "  Quite  t'other,"  as  he  admitted  without  ap- 
parent regret,  when  talking  the  matter  over.  He  had 
declined  to  enter  the  office  of  his  father,  a  solicitor  in 
large  practice ;  he  had  no  leaning  to  any  of  the  other 
professions.  He  had  no  definite  ambitions  in  fact. 
He  said  of  himself  that  he  also  had  neither  enthusi- 
asms nor  illusions ;  but  it  is  to  be  hoped  that,  being  a 
young  man  and  not  a  monster,  this  declaration  was  at 
least  premature. 


THE  CURATE'S  FRIEND.  19 

He  bad  a  taste  for  art,  but  be  bad  never  wisbed  to 
take  seriously  to  tbe  career  of  an  artist.  His  pictures 
showed  so  raucb  talent  that  his  people  took  him  for  a 
genius,  and  said  of  him  that  be  would  acquire  a  great 
name;  but  be  himself  knew  that  he  should  accomplish 
nothing,  nor  did  be  greatly  desire  to  do  so.  He  had 
been  living  in  Paris  for  a  couple  of  years,  studying 
art,  his  parents  believed;  but  beyond  the  two  or  three 
half-finished  sketches  his  mother  found  among  his  be- 
longings on  bis  return  he  had  nothing  to  show  for  the 
outcome.  These  sketches,  duly  framed  and  assigned 
places  of  honor  by  maternal  pride,  he  sternly  deposed 
and  banished  to  the  lumber-room.  About  himself — 
his  own  power,  and  the  worth  of  his  productions  he 
at  least  had  no  illusions.  Having  them  he  would 
probably  have  been  a  better,  certainly  a  more  success- 
ful man.  Of  rather  more  than  medium  height,  he 
had  the  appearance  of  great  ph}'Sical  strength,  being 
heavy  in  the  shoulder,  long  in  the  arm,  deep  in  tbe 
chest.  And  in  his  face  there  was  a  promise  of 
strength  which  his  character  seemed  to  belie — that 
look  of  strength  being  merely  its  only  attraction.  He 
was  of  a  very  dark  complexion,  and  he  wore  bis 
straight  black  hair  longer  than  was  considered  desir- 
able at  that  period.  His  eyes  were  of  a  pale  grey 
green,  having  small  beauty  of  their  own,  and  ordi- 
narily none  of  expression,  they  grew  a  thought  too 
close  to  his  nose,  wbicb  was  big  and  fleshy  ;  his  lips 
were  straight  and  thin,  and  lifted  themselves  a  little 
at  one  corner  when  he  smiled,  showing  his  white  and 
even  teeth. 

Such  as  be  was  he  was  lying  back  comfortably  in 
his  chair  in  the  rectory  study  on  that  evening  when 
the  Carlyons  came  to  dine. 


20  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

There  was  a  rustle  among  the  curtains  in  the  win- 
dow, and  the  rectory  children,  denuded  of  scarlet 
overalls,  now  irreproachable  in  black  frocks  and  white 
muslin  pinafores,  crept  forth. 

"Now  be  off!  Be  off!"  cried  their  father.  He 
stood  up  with  his  back  to  the  fireplace,  and  waved 
the  children  to  the  door.  The  look  of  irritable  worry 
so  familiar  to  his  family  usurped  the  politely  attentive 
expression  of  his  melancholy  face.  "  Betty,  what  are 
you  doing  here  ?  Take  your  sisters  away." 

The  smaller  children  at  once  made  for  the  door, 
Betty  confronted  her  father  from  her  stand  by  the 
curate's  knee. 

"  Mayn't  she  stay,  Mr.  Jervois?  "  pleaded  the  weak 
young  man. 

"  She  has  been  very  naught}^,"  said  the  rector. 
"  She  is  under  punishment.  Miss  Walker  has  com- 
plained to  me.  I  must  be  allowed  to  punish  my  own 
children,  Bill.  She  is  to  go  to  bed." 

"  I  won't  go  to  bed,"  said  Betty. 

Miss  Carlyon  opened  shocked  e}res  of  surprise  with 
a  remonstrative  "  My  dear  Betty  !  "  The  curate 
muttering  "  Idiot !  "  under  his  breath,  endeavored  to 
shake  the  child  into  reasonableness.  Harringay 
turned  his  head  and  looked  at  the  rebel  with  lifted 
lip. 

"  Miss  Walker  is  a  beast,"  said  Betty. 

"  I'm  sure  she's  a  beast  if  the  little  one  says  so," 
Harringay  said  in  his  gentle  voice,  turning  indiffer- 
ently back  to  his  host,  "  Your  little  girl's  far  too 
pretty  to  be  mistaken." 

"  It  is  all  an  intolerable  worry  to  me,"  said  the  rec- 
tor— "  an  intolerable  worry  !  "  He  half  turned,  and 
took  from  the  mantelpiece  behind  him  the  sheet  of 


THE  CURATE'S  FRIEND.  21 

schoolroom  paper  which  had  been  laid  in  the  govern- 
ess's place.  "  Whatever  Miss  Walker  may  be,  she 
must  be  treated  as  a  lady  while  in  my  house — she 
mustn't  be  insulted,  or  ridiculed,  or " 

He  had  fitted  his  eyeglasses  upon  his  nose  and  was 
peering  at  the  picture.  Betty,  watching  him  in- 
tently, saw  a  smile  twitching  the  corner  of  his  mouth. 
She  gave  a  sigh  of  relief  and  sat  down  on  the  arm  of 
the  curate's  chair. 

The  drawing  was  passed  on  to  Miss  Carlyon  for 
inspection,  who  regarded  it  and  then  the  artist  with  a 
solemn  face  of  sorrowful  disapproval,  and  a  reiterated 
"  My  dear  Betty  !  "  Harringay  looked  at  the  sketch 
then  took  it  in  his  hand.  His  face  lit  up  with  amuse- 
ment. "  I  call  it  uncommonly  clever,"  he  said.  He 
glanced  quickly  at  the  child,  and  then  back  to  the 
paper  in  his  hand  and  gave  a  short  pleased  laugh. 
"  I  declare  it  is  uncommonly  clever." 

"  How  wrong  of  you  !  How  wicked  to  encourage 
her,"  said  Miss  Carlyon  in  the  low  voice  of  admoni- 
tion, and  the  rector,  recalled  to  a  sense  of  duty,  once 
more,  and  with  all  the  emphasis  roused  by  contradic- 
tion, ordered  his  daughter  off  to  bed. 

Betty,  once  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  door,  whither 
she  was  escorted  with  the  curate's  arm  about  her 
shoulder,  shook  a  vindictive  fist  in  the  direction  of 
that  j'oung  man's  sister  : 

"  I  hate  her,"  said  Betty  through  grinding  little 
teeth,  "  I  hate  her  worse  than  the  Walker  woman." 

The  rector  was  sighing  miserably  upon  the  hearth- 
rug. 

"  They  are  all  very  kind  to  me,"  he  said,  "  Miss 
Walker  and  the  other  long  line  of  ladies  she  has  suc- 
ceeded. They  wait  on  me  with  galoshes  and  slippers 


22  THE  CEDAE  STAS. 

and — as  you  see — umbrellas — attention  I  could  dis- 
pense with.  But  the  weightier  matters  of  caring  for 
my  children  and  delivering  me  from  incessant  annoy- 
ances they  altogether  omit.  Betty  has  to  be  sent  to 
bed.  It  is  a  little  hard  on  me,  I  think.  But  she  is 
getting  quite  beyond  me — quite  beyond  me." 

He  sighed  again.  Then  he  bent  down  and  peered 
once  more  at  the  crude  performance  Harringay  was 
still  smiling  over. 

"  Poor  Miss  Walker  ran  down  to  remind  me  of  my 
umbrella.  There  she  is,  you  see — there  she  is  1 "  he 
said  pointing  with  irrepressible  pride  to  the  present- 
ment of  the  lady. 

"  And  here  are  you,"  said  Harringay,  with  a  chuckle. 
"  Your  face  is  hidden  but  I  should  have  known  the 
back  of  you,  anywhere.  Look  at  the  eagerness  to 
escape  expressed  by  the  flying  coat  tails  I  It  is  won- 
derfully funny ! " 

"  That  is  evidently  an  umbrella,  but  what  is  the 
object  in  the  poor  lady's  other  hand  ? "  wondered  the 
near-sighted  rector. 

"  Those — those  are  your  galoshes,"  his  curate  as- 
sured him,  unblushingly. 

It  was  quite  evident  to  the  three  guests  that  the 
article  with  which  Miss  Walker  was  pursuing  the 
retreating  figure  of  the  rector  was  that  lady's  chaste 
unsullied  heart. 

When  dinner  was  over,  and  Miss  Carlyon  had  re- 
tired to  the  drawing-room,  where  the  ill-used  gover- 
ness and  her  woes  awaited  her,  there  came  a  rustling 
and  a  scampering,  whose  import  was  well-known  to 
the  Reverend  William  Carlyon,  outside  the  dining- 
room  door.  He  got  up  presently  and  went  into  the 
hall  and  found  the  two  younger  children  awaiting 


THE  CURATE'S  FRIEND.  23 

him  on  the  stairs — two  pretty,  active  little  figures, 
eager  for  their  woman's  game  of  eluding  him  when 
he  pursued,  and  rushing  after  him  when  he  turned 
away. 

For  a  little  while  longer  the  rector  and  Harringay 
bored  each  other  over  the  dining-table, — neither  was 
a  man  of  many  words  and  one  of  them  suffered  from 
a  paucity  of  ideas, — then  Harringay  roused  by  a  shout 
of  laughter  from  the  children  followed  by  the  dis-- 
creeter  cachinations  of  their  good-natured  playfellow, 
also  made  his  way  to  the  hall.  Carlyon,  thrusting 
his  hand  between  the  banister-rails  was  endeavoring, 
and  pretending  to  endeavor,  to  catch  the  flying  feet  as 
they  passed  up  and  down  the  stairs.  Harringay 
looked  on,  leaning  against  the  dining-room  door,  his 
cigar  in  his  mouth. 

"Where's  the  little  artist?"  he  asked  at  last. 
"  Where's  my  pretty  friend  of  the  copper-colored 
hair?" 

"  Betty's  in  bed,"  Emily  explained.  "  She  hated 
going,  only  she  wanted  to  punish  father.  He  told 
her  to  go  and  she's  gone,  and  that  will  make  father 
most  awf'ly  unhappy." 

"  You  have  proved  mercifully  disobedient  lest  his 
trouble  should  be  greater  than  he  could  bear  ?  "  ques- 
tioned the  indifferent  young  man. 

Then  a  door  which  had  stood  ajar  on  the  land- 
ing above  opened  and  a  ruddy  head  and  pale  eager 
little  face  emerged  into  the  dim  light  of  the  stair- 
way. 

"  I  didn't  go  to  bed,"  Betty  informed  the  rest  in  a 
loud  whisper.  "  I  only  pretended.  Pretending  does 
as  well  sometimes." 

"  Often,"  acquiesced  Harringay.     He  removed  his 


24  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

) 

shoulder  from  the  dining-room  door,  sprang  up  a  stair 
or  two  and  sat  down  by  Betty's  side.  He  had  no 
particular  love  for  children,  but  he  loved  a  charming 
picture — and  the  dining-table  with  its  local  topics,  and 
the  poor  rector's  ill  suppressed  yawns,  were  so  deadly 
dull. 

So  that  during  the  ten  minutes  or  so  that  William 
Carlyon  and  the  giggling  Emily  skirmished  in  the 
hall,  that  Ian  sat  with  black-stockinged  fat  legs 
pushed  through  the  rails  of  the  banisters,  gurgling 
over  her  efforts  to  entrap  the  curate's  head  between 
her  dangling  feet,  Edward  Harringay  and  Betty 
Jervois  had  their  first  talk. 

The  talk  was  principally  on  the  side  of  the  child. 
Mr.  Harringay  had  called  her  pretty,  he  had  praised 
her  drawing.  A  person  so  discriminating  must  be 
very  clever  and  dear.  He  would  understand  her,  he 
would  be  amused,  he  would  admire.  Hitherto,  all  her 
heart  had  been  given  to  the  young  curate  with  the 
long  slim  body,  the  rough  tow-colored  hair,  the  red, 
red  cheeks,  and  the  boyish  eyes  of  blue.  She  had 
been  furiously  jealous  of  his  attentions  to  her  sisters, 
had  resented  each  caress  bestowed  on  Ian  as  an  injury 
to  herself. 

"  He  is  my  friend,"  she  had  declared  in  the  tone 
which,  with  Betty  meant,  "  hands  off!  "  and  the  other 
children  had  refrained  from  making  like  claim  upon 
the  young  man,  knowing  full  well  that  they  would 
have  to  pay  for  such  presumption. 

But  Billy  had  never  said  that  she  was  pretty — she, 
in  fact,  had  had  no  idea  that  such  was  the  case  until 
she  had  heard  Harringay  1s  epoch-making  speech  that 
evening — Billy  had  not  troubled  to  admire  her  draw- 
ings. Ian  and  Emily  were  welcome  to  Billy  for  the 


THE  CURATE'S  FRIEND.  25 

present.     It  was  to  this  charming  and  discerning  per- 
son she  made  over  her  allegiance. 

Her  tongue  ran  on  without  hesitation ;  she  was  in- 
spired to  give  him  her  whole  confidence,  and  to  put 
him  in  possession  of  all  the  details  of  her  life  and 
character,  to  relate  to  him  all  her  fancies  and  aspira- 
tions at  once. 

So  she  leaned  contentedly  against  him  as  the}7  sat 
on  the  stairs  and  told  him  of  her  hatred  of  Miss 
Carlyon  who  was  so  good — didn't  he  also  dislike 
good  people  ?  They  were  always  so  detestable ! — and 
so  ugly — oh,  so  ugly  ! — of  her  resolution  never  to  sub- 
mit to  the  rule  of  a  governess  who  made  love  to 
u  father  " — and  the}r  all  made  love  to  him — of  her  love 
for  Mr.  Chipling,  the  long-haired  terrier  and  her  de. 
termination  that  he  should  sleep  on  her  bed,  on  which 
subject  she  and  Susan,  the  children's  maid,  had  come 
to  fisticuffs  that  very  night.  She  told  him  of  her 
cousin  Violet,  who  had  been  nice  once  but  had  become 
horrid  since  she  was  "  a  grown  up,"  she  told  him  of 
Carbon's  habit  of  growing  red  when  Violet's  name 
was  mentioned.  It  couldn't  be  that  he  was  in  love 
with  her,  she  hastened  to  add,  because  Violet  was  such 
a  noodle.  Did  Mr.  Harringay  think  it  possible  that 
anyone  could  fall  in  love  with  a  noodle  ? 

To  Harringay's  inquiry  as  to  whether  she  knew 
what  a  funny,  pretty  and  clever  little  girl  she  was, 
she  replied  that  Susan  in  the  nursery  thought  the 
color  of  her  hair  hideous  and  always  scolded  when  the 
comb  broke  in  the  tangles.  That  Billy  Carlyon  had 
told  her  she  was  like  Carrotty  Parkins  who  blew  the 
organ  and  said  that  no  one  would  ever  marry  her. 
That  she  was  not,  however,  at  all  desirous  of  the  mar- 
riage state  as  she  meant  to  live  with  Billy  Carlyon 


26  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

himself  and  draw  for  Punch  when  she  grew  up. 
Finally  that  she  intended  to  be  rid  of  Miss  Walker  at 
an  early  date,  and  would  spare  no  pains,  nor  know  any 
scruples  while  working  toward  that  result. 

And  in  this  last  matter  she  was  allowed  to  see  early 
of  the  travail  of  her  soul. 


VIOLET  BELTON.  27 


CHAPTER  III. 

VIOLET  BELTON. 

AT  Easter  Miss  Walker  departed,  wrath  in  her 
soul,  resentment  in  her  demeanor,  fiery  disdain  in  the 
glance  thrown  toward  the  little  figures  watching 
eagerly  at  the  schoolroom  window  to  see  her  off. 

Then  that  happened  which  always  happened  in 
each  interregnum  'twixt  governess  and  governess 
since  Mrs.  Jervois's  death,  Yiolet  came. 

Violet  Belton,  the  rector's  niece,  was  the  daughter 
of  a  clergyman  at  Edmundsbury,  whose  purse  was 
lean  and  quiver  full.  She  was  shy,  retiring,  pretty, 
but  in  such  an  ineffective,  unimpressive  wajr,  that  her 
charms  generally  failed  to  make  their  due  impression. 
She  was  conscious  to  the  finger  tips  of  the  curate's 
approving  glance,  scarcely  daring  to  believe  in  his  ad- 
miration, yet  secretely  desirous  of  it,  taking  as  much 
pains  to  elude  the  man  she  wished  to  meet  in  village, 
lane,  or  garden  as  other  girls  would  have  used  for  a 
lure.  In  the  hands  of  the  children  she  came  to  con- 
trol she  was  quite  helpless,  failing  ignominiously  in 
her  timid  efforts  at  coercion,  her  opinions  flouted,  her 
authority  laughed  to  scorn — a  slave  where  she  should 
have  been  a  mistress.  Yet  all  such  rebuffs  she  treated 
with  a  sweet  humilit}',  with  a  gentle,  unconscious 
dignity,  which  constituted  in  the  curate's  mind  her 
not  least  considerable  charm. 

Her  uncle,  a  man  extremely  anxious  to  find  the 
surface  of  things  unruffled,  and  naturally  averse  from 


28  THE  CEDAR  STAR. 

inquiring  into  the  depths  beneath,  was  well  content  to 
have  the  girl  at  the  rectory.  The  children  were  so 
happy  that  they  kept  out  of  mischief,  he  supposed, 
out  of  his  way,  he  knew.  There  was  no  ugly,  ill-bred 
woman  to  sit  opposite  him  at  meals,  to  pursue  him 
with  attentions  at  which  his  children  laughed,  to  force 
him  to  maintain  a  silence  he  felt  to  be  impolite,  or  to 
embark  on  a  conversation  which  irked  him.  "  I  think 
we  have  given  the  governess  scheme  a  fair  trial,  and 
have  proved  conclusively  that  it  won't  answer,"  he 
said,  talking  the  matter  over  with  Miss  Carlyon  a  day 
or  two  after  Violet's  arrival.  "  For  the  future  the 
children  must  learn  what  they  can  from  their  cousin." 

But  the  lady  by  no  means  approved  :  "  Children 
require  a  firm  hand,"  she  said.  "  They  want  a  person 
over  them  whom  they  can  respect — fear  a  little,  even, 
as  well  as  love." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  the  rector,  dolefully  appreciative,  ac- 
quiesced. He  had  heard  it  all  before.  In  each  suc- 
ceeding governess  he  had  hoped  to  find  Caroline 
Carlyon's  ideal.  "  It  is  easy  enough  to  talk,  but 
where  is  that  kind  of  person  to  be  found  ?  "  poor  Mr. 
Jervois  cried. 

Caroline  may  have  thought  she  knew  very  well,  but 
she  said  nothing.  It  was  inconceivable  that  he  did 
not  feel — here  was  such  a  person,  ready  to  his  hand, 
made  for  the  post ;  but  the  idea  of  filling  his  dead 
wife's  place  had  not  entered  the  rector's  head,  would 
never  enter  it,  Miss  Carlyon  said  :  who  was  of  far 
too  reserved  and  self-respecting  a  nature  to  put  it 
there. 

"  If  you  keep  Violet  Belton  with  you  Betty  should 
be  sent  to  school,"  the  sensible  woman  said. 

But  the  rector  had  an  even  greater  objection  to 


VIOLET  B ELTON.  29 

boarding  schools,  than  to  governesses,  it  seemed  ;  and 
his  curate  who  came  into  the  room  at  this  point  of  the 
conversation  advanced  the  argument  that  it  would  be 
very  little  use  sending  the  child  to  a  boarding  school 
as  she  certainly  would  never  go. 

"  My  dear  !  "  his  sister  said,  she  gazed  at  him  re- 
provingly with  her  serious  eyes.  She  was  a  good- 
looking  woman  of  little  more  than  thirty,  with  smooth, 
dark  hair  brushed  plainly  on  each  side  of  her  narrow 
forehead,  her  regular  featured,  delicate  tinted  face 
terminating  in  an  over-long  and  pointed  chin.  "  My 
dear !  the  child  would  go  if  her  father  wished  it." 

"  I  allow  no  insubordination,"  said  the  rector,  pull- 
ing himself  up,  with  an  angry  glance  in  Carlyon's  di- 
rection. 

"  She'd  break  her  heart,"  the  curate  declared. 

His  sister  smiled  superior.  "  Nonsense,  dear,"  she 
said,  "  Betty  is  very  much  like  other  girls,  I  expect." 

But  the  father  resented  this  classification  of  his  eld- 
est, naughtiest  daughter.  "  She  is  a  fine  character," 
he  said,  "  Betty's  is  a  very  fine  character." 

It  was  young  Carlyon  who  had  pointed  out  that 
fact  to  his  rector  on  an  occasion  when  Betty's  delin- 
quencies had  been  under  consideration,  and  Mr.  Jer- 
vois  had  accepted  the  assertion  with  unquestioning 
faith.  "  Her  mother  had  a  beautiful  character,"  he 
added  now,  and  fell  into  the  abstracted  silence  which 
always  followed  the  mention  of  his  dead  wife's  name. 

The  consequence  of  Violet  Belton's  installation  at 
the  rectory  anyone  could  have  foreseen.  There  wanted 
but  opportunity  to  repress  the  shy  liking  which  al- 
read}-  existed  between  them  into  a  warmer  feeling,  and 
it  was  inevitable  that  the  girl  and  the  curate  should 
fall  in  love.  She  was  so  pretty  and  yielding,  and 


30  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

sweet,  and  at  such  an  impressionable  age.  Elegible 
too,  all  things  considered.  At  his  father's  death  he 
would  inherit  a  modest  little  fortune,  and  he  was  not 
even  now  dependent  on  his  curate's  stipend.  He  was 
of  good  family,  too,  and  connected  with  influential 
people.  There  was  every  hope  of  early  promotion  for 
Billy  Carlybu. 

Even  the  rector,  a  by  no  means  observant  person, 
awoke  to  the  aspect  of  the  case,  and  took  occasion  to 
mention  before  his  curate  in  a  happily  casual  way  that 
Violet  would  have  nothing  but  her  pretty  face  to  her 
fortune. 

As  for  Betty,  Peter,  her  brother  was  at  home  for 
the  Easter  holidays.  If  the  sun  would  only  shine  and 
she  could  keep  Peter  at  her  side,  Betty  did  not  for 
the  time  trouble  greatly  about  anything  besides. 

So  that  the  lovers,  both  overwhelmed  with  shyness, 
horribly  conscious  of  each  other's  presence,  and  if  a 
word  passed  in  public  between  them,  feeling  the  forces 
of  the  universe  stand  a-pause  to  listen,  had  a  fearfully 
joyful  time.  There  were  laboriously  accidental  meet- 
ings in  the  lanes  or  the  village  street,  there  were  slow 
pacings  of  the  garden  paths,  searchings  in  meadows 
and  beneath  hedge-rows  for  violets  and  primroses,  fit 
emblems  of  such  youthful,  natural  and  modest  loves  ; 
there  were  rather  silent  but  delightful  half-hours  in 
the  schoolroom,  with  Emily  and  Ian,  too  busy  over 
the  dolls  to  which  they  always  returned  when  deserted 
by  Betty,  to  interrupt. 

It  had  been  ordained  that  the  Reverend  William 
Carlyon  should  sing  at  the  approaching  village  con- 
cert. The  young  man's  ear  was  slightly  defective, 
and  he  had  no  voice  to  speak  of,  but  he  was  so  accus- 
tomed to  be  made  use  of  without  reference  to  his  per- 


VIOLET  BELTON.  31 

sonal  inclination  or  advantage,  that  he  did  not  dream 
of  objecting.  It  would  not  be  the  first  time  he  had 
made  an  ass  of  himself  in  public,  he  reflected,  and  was 
the  less  averse  from  the  ordeal  as  Miss  Belton  had  un- 
dertaken his  musical  rehearsals. 

They  were  holding  one  on  an  afternoon  in  the 
schoolroom  when  Edward  Harringay  made  one  of  his 
rather  frequent  appearances  at  the  rectory. 

"  Go  on — go  on,"  Violet,  at  the  piano,  had  com- 
manded, looking  up  at  her  tall  young  pupil  over  her 
shoulder,  as  the  door  opened  to  admit  the  newcomer. 
And  Bill}',  contenting  himself  with  a  wink  at  his 
friend,  by  way  of  greeting,  proceeded  obediently  with 
his  song. 

Harringay  shook  hands  silently  with  Miss  Carlyon, 
sitting,  bonnetted,  her  gloves  in  her  bare  hands  in  the 
window,  then  took  up  his  place  on  the  hearthrug,  and 
regarded  the  pair  at  the  piano  with  a  kind  of  gloomy 
interest. 

"  Yes.  You  must  try  it  over  again,"  Yiolet  said. 
She,  like  so  many  sweet-faced  women,  had  a  sweet 
voice  of  her  own,  and  was  musical.  She  was  at  her 
ease,  therefore,  and  not  at  all  shy  over  this  subject. 
"  Just  that  bit  where  it  goes  down — down,  do  you  see 
— like  this,"  humming  it  softly  as  she  looked  up  at 
him.  "  Do  you  see  ?  Once  more  please." 

"  If  you  really  wish  it,"  Carlyon  said.  "  But  it's  a 
little  rough  on  Harringay,  who — " 

"  Oh,  don't  mind  me.  Cut  away,  Bill,"  said  the 
young  man  on  the  hearthrug.  He  was  struck  by  the 
fact  that  the  girl  at  the  piano  was  unconscious  of,  or 
entirely  indifferent  to  his  presence.  She  was  so 
engrossed  with  Billy  Carlyon  that  she  had  positivel}r 
forgotten  a  second  man  was  there.  He  was  not  used 


32  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

to  be  forgotten.  He  was  not  annoyed  at  all,  but  sur- 
prised in  spite  of  himself,  and  interested. 

While  the  song  proceeded,  his  gaze  at  Violet,  which 
had  ever  before  been  careless  enough,  grew  fixed. 

She  was  a  very  pretty  object  in  her  simple  dark 
blue  dress  of  simplest  make,  the  afternoon  sun  shin- 
ing on  her  soft  hair  and  lending  it  a  warmth  to  vie 
with  Betty's  own.  He  noticed  how  daintily  the  small 
head  was  placed  on  the  slim  throat,  how  graceful  were 
the  shoulders  in  spite  of  the  girlish  droop  which  Vio- 
let's  mother  so  much  regretted.  From  where  he  stood 
he  could  see  only  one  slight  and  delicate  hand,  and  he 
noticed  the  wrist,  where  it  emerged  from  the  closely 
gathered,  loose  sleeve,  was  beautifully  moulded.  The 
pure  and  lily -type  of  womanhood  was  not  Harringay's 
ideal,  but  he  also  was  at  an  impressionable  age — and 
was  not  all  beauty  adorable? 

Nearing  that  perilous  passage  of  which  the  curate's 
rendering  had  been  so  glaringly  defective,  Violet 
looked  up  at  the  young  man,  breathless,  her  innocent 
eyes  full  of  anxious  encouragement.  That  look  un- 
nerved the  singer,  perhaps,  for  he  floundered  for  a 
minute  in  a  confusion  of  wrong  notes,  and  broke  down, 
laughing  and  blushing.  But  another  voice  took  up 
the  passage,  a  voice  fuller  and  truer  and  clearer,  than 
poor  Bill's  defective  organ,  and  sang  the  phrase  to  the 
end. 

"My  life's  bright  light  was  quenched  in  pain, 
And  you  were  dead  to  me !  " 

As  the  last  note  died  away,  Violet  turned  slowly  on 
her  music  stool,  and  looked  at  the  singer  with  a  mild 
wonder  on  her  face,  as  if  here  were  something  beauti- 
ful and  strange  which  she  had  not  seen  before. 


VIOLET  S ELTON.  33 

"  Why,  how  well  you  sang  ? "  said  Miss  Carlyon 
from  the  window. 

"  Oh,  Ted's  a  first-rater  at  it.  Didn't  you  know 
before?"  the  curate  inquired,  looking  proudly  upon 
his  friend.  "  I  shan't  want  to  make  an  ass  of  myself 
on  the  nineteenth  now,  Miss  Belton.  You  must  get 
Harringay  to  come  and  do  it  instead." 

That  mild  wonder  was  still  shining  in  Violet's  eyes, 
Harringay's  met  it  as  his  own  looked  back  at  her. 

"  Oh,  will  you  please,  please,  please  come  and 
sing  ? "  she  asked,  childishly  eager,  "  Mr.  Carlj'on  has 
not  put  it  very  nicely, — but  do  come  I  I  have  been 
in  despair  for  men's  voices  and  I  never  once  even 
thought  of  you." 

"  Then  you  must  be  punished,"  Harringa}'  declared 
with  gravity,  "  When  ladies  omit  to  think  of  me  they 
must  be  punished." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Harringay,  you  won't  be  so  cruel !  " 

"  Under  cruel  treatment  I  can  be  very  cruel  indeed, 
Miss  Belton." 

"  But  are  we  all  to  suffer  for  Miss  Belton 's  mis- 
deeds ? "  Caroline  inquired  with  a  prim  contempt  for 
such  trifling.  "  Sing  us  something  now,  Mr.  Har- 
ringay." 

"  And  fight  out  the  concert  business  afterwards," 
the  curate  suggested. 

"  Certainly  I  will  sing  if  Miss  Carlyon  wishes  it," 
Harringay  said.  He  sat  down  to  the  piano,  accom- 
panying himself,  and  sang  several  so-called  comic  songs 
in  vogue  that  season.  He  sang  that  plaintive  ditty 
which  tells  how  the  Fatherland — the  happy  Fatherland 
— was  to  dispense  with  the  services  of  its  sons  when  once 
they  escape  over  to  England,  he  waxed  eloquent  over 
the  history  of  his  first  cigar — his  very  first  cigar — 
3 


34  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

Betty  came  in  with  her  brother  and  took  up  her 
stand  by  the  side  of  the  piano  and  stared  with  a 
puzzled  frown  into  the  singer's  face  :  "  Why  didn't 
you  do  that  before  ? "  she  inquired. 

"  Sing  us  something  more  worthy  of  your  voice," 
Miss  Carlyon  pleaded. 

"  Give  them  '  To  Anthea,'  "  said  Bill. 

But  he  would  sing  only  to  Bett}r  who  did  not  quite 
know  if  to  approve  him  in  this  unsuspected  role. 
And  he  had  soon  finished.  Quite  well  he  understood 
the  wisdom  of  letting  your  audience  long  for  more. 

"  Do  }"ou  know  that  you  are  very  perverse  ?  "  Miss 
Cartyon  inquired  when  presently  he  held  out  his  hand 
to  her  in  farewell. 

He  smiled  upon  her  as  she  spoke,  and  she,  observing 
him  with  awakened  interest,  because  of  that  unsus- 
pected gift  of  song,  noticed  for  the  first  time  how 
peculiar  was  his  smile,  and  how  his  pale  eyes  glittered 
into  beauty  beneath  the  black  brows  in  its  light. 

"  I  will  sing  for  you  when  and  where  you  like  and 
for  as  long  as  you  like,"  he  said.  "  But  I  will  not 
sing  for  Miss  Belton  because  she  has  been  unkind  to 
me  and  has  hurt  my  pride." 

"  I  thought  him  a  plain  young  man,  and  he  is,  when 
one  looks  at  him,  not  at  all  plain,"  said  Caroline,  as 
the  door  closed  upon  the  visitor.  "  He  must  be  a  de- 
lightful person.  He  has  music  in  his  soul.  I  have  a 
pet  theory  of  my  own,  Bill,  that  truly  musical  people 
must  be  good." 

"  I  have  heard  it  before,  and  I  hope  the  converse 
doesn't  hold  good,  for  my  own  sake,"  said  the  poor 
curate,  a  little  ruefully.  "  Miss  Belton  is  looking 
very  sad  and  serious.  Do  you  think  my  morals  are 
as  bad  as  my  music,  Miss  Belton  ? " 


VIOLET  BELTON.  35 

"  I  cannot  think  how  I  have  been  unkind,"  said 
Violet,  wistfully,  looking  with  puzzled  appealing  eyes 
upon  them  all.  "  What  can  have  made  Mr.  Harringay 
so  displeased  with  me  ?  " 

"  He  was  rotting  you,"  Peter  called  out.  "  Women 
never  know  when  men  are  rotting  them."  The  youth 
was  lying  prone  on  the  hearthrug ;  he  did  not  conde- 
scend to  lift  his  rough  head  from  the  book  he  was 
reading  as  he  favored  the  company  with  this  elucida- 
tion, but  he  raised  his  legs,  one  after  the  other,  bend- 
ing them  at  the  knee,  and  letting  his  toes  dig  into  the 
pile  of  the  carpet  as  he  dropped  each  heavily  in  turn. 
Miss  Carlyon  eyed  his  posture  with  displeasure,  but 
the  rest  of  his  surroundings  accepted  the  fact  that 
Peter  must  lie  on  his  stomach  when  he  was  at  home 
for  the  holida}rs,  and  that  it  would  be  unnatural  for 
him  having  legs  not  to  kick  with  them. 

u  That  Harringay  is  a  conceited  beast,  else  he'd 
have  sung  when  he  was  wanted  to,"  he  added. 

"  You  shut  up ! "  cried  Betty,  glaring  fiercely. 
"  What  do  you  know  about  it  ?  I  suppose  if  he 
doesn't  want  to  sing  sentimental  songs  to  Violet  it's 
no  business  of  yours.  If  I  was  a  man  I  wouldn't. 
Nothing  would  make  me  be  such  a  silly." 

This  with  a  contemptuous  glance  at  Bill,  gazing 
with  all  his  heart  in  his  eyes  at  the  girl  upon  the 
music-stool.  He  was  so  tender  over  her  that  he  could 
not  endure,  unmoved,  to  see  the  least  shadow  upon 
her  face. 

"  It  was  only  Harringay's  nonsense,"  he  said  re- 
assuringly. "  If  you  aren't  tired  of  it,  shall  we  try 
'  Summer  and  Winter '  once  again  ?  I  don't  mind 
making  an  ass  of  myself  for  the  good  of  my  country 
now  and  again,  Betty." 


36  THE  CEDAR  STAR. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

BETTY   MAKES   A  CONFIDENCE. 

BUT  after  that  occasion  when  his  presence  had  been 
temporarily  overlooked,  and  when  the  afternoon  sun 
had  shone  tenderly  upon  Violet's  head  at  the  piano, 
and  when  she  had  happened  to  look  up  with  innocent 
eyes  of  proprietorship  into  William  Carlyon's  face, 
Harringay  was  always  turning  up  at  Blow  Weston. 

It  seemed  natural  and  pleasant  to  have  him  there. 
He  made  no  special  demands  on  the  time  or  patience 
of  any  particular  person.  No  one  found  that  he  came 
too  often.  He  rode  over  to  the  rectory  for  lunch,  and 
Mr.  Jervois  alwa}rs  brightened  at  his  presence.  If 
the  two  men  had  nothing  in  common,  the  elder  at 
least  never  found  it  out.  To  the  children  he  was 
never  what  Bill  Carlyon  was — half  slave — half  mas- 
ter. He  never  put  himself  out  of  his  way  to  talk  to 
them,  or  play  with  them,  or  draw  them  out.  But 
Betty  had  declared  that  he  was  a  perfect  person  of 
whom  nothing  but  good  was  to  be  said.  It  was  held 
therefore  by  inviolable  schoolroom  law  that  Ted  Har- 
ringay was  as  handsome  and  clever  as  he  was  good. 
Peter,  it  is  true,  proved  refractor}'  now  and  then,  and 
generally  declined  to  take  "  the  chap  Harringay  "  to 
his  heart.  But  Peter,  as  Betty  did  not  hesitate  to 
explain  to  him,  had  never  nice  manners  and  always 
managed  to  like  the  wrong  people.  And  Peter  soon 
went  back  to  school. 


BETTY  MAKES  A    CONFIDENCE.  37 

And  at  the  Carlyons'  abode — "  Queen  Anne's  Cot- 
tage "  as  it  was  called,  out  of  compliment  to  the  so- 
ciety which  had  helped  the  curate's  residence  into  ex- 
istence, Harringay  became  very  much  at  home.  The 
good-natured  young  host,  finding  that  he  liked  to 
come,  had  given  a  general  invitation  to  his  old  college 
friend.  As  for  Caroline,  not  an  expansive  or  effusive 
character  at  all,  she  took  it  into  her  head  that  it  was 
she  who  had  first  discovered  him  to  be  a  person  of  in- 
terest. Ideas  once  admitted  to  her  brain  were  safe 
from  expulsion,  and  she  looked  upon  the  young  man 
as  her  especial  protege",  the  fact  being  that  when 
Harringay,  for  reasons  of  the  moment,  cared  to  make 
a  good  impression,  his  efforts  were  invariably  crowned 
with  success.  One  night  when  the  visitor  had  been 
about  to  start  from  Queen  Anne's  for  his  eight  miles 
ride,  Miss  Carlyon  had  discovered  that  the  weather 
was  extremely  unpropitious.  A  room  had  therefore 
been  hurriedly  prepared  for  him,  which,  afterwards,  he 
as  often  occupied  as  not.  He  had  no  duties  calling 
him  elsewhere,  no  law  but  that  of  his  own  wish  and 
will  to  follow,  and,  during  the  months  of  the  spring 
and  summer,  he  was  content  to  idle  away  his  time  in 
the  quiet  country  spot. 

He  made  a  water-color  sketch  of  Caroline  Carlyon 
with  which  even  the  politest  of  his  critics  could  not 
pretend  gratification  ;  and,  at  the  child's  urgent  re- 
quest, he  undertook  to  paint  Betty  Jervois  in  oils.  In 
spite  of  her  enthusiasm  for  art,  however,  Betty  made 
a  bad  sitter,  and  speedily  became  disgusted  with  the 
slow  fashion  in  which  her  face  grew  beneath  the 
artist's  hand.  Besides  which,  it  did  not  appear  to  the 
child  that  Harringay  who  had  called  her  pretty  in- 
tended to  do  her  justice. 


38  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

"  My  hair  does  not  stick  out  like  a  burning  bush 
around  my  head,"  she  declared  disgustedly,"  And  I'm 
ever  so  much  a  fatter  kind  of  a  child.  And  why 
couldn't  you  have  done  me  in  my  best  frock,  instead 
of  that  frightful  red  pinafore." 

Something  of  her  disgust  communicated  itself  to  the 
sensitive  artist  nature,  perhaps,  for  Harringay  worked 
only  fitfully  upon  the  picture.  He,  without  a  word 
of  apology  to  the  sitter,  would  fling  down  his  brushes 
and  would  join  Yiolet  and  the  younger  children  over 
their  croquet  on  the  lawn,  at  which  game  Paul,  the 
kitten,  and  Chip,  the  fat  terrier,  were  also  supposed 
to  play,  Ian  and  Emily  conscientiously  undertaking 
to  knock  the  balls  assigned  to  those  animals  through 
the  hoops  as  well  as  their  own,  a  proceeding  which 
prolonged  the  game  beyond  convenient  limits.  Or  he 
would  sit  in  the  deck  chair  under  the  cedar  to  watch 
the  curate  and  Yiolet  play  their  daily  "  single  "  at 
tennis,  a  match  in  which  victory  was  never  to  the 
swift  nor  the  race  to  the  strong,  as  Carlyon,  who  was 
the  best  player  of  the  neighborhood  and  for  several 
miles  around  on  these  occasions  always  contrived  to 
be  beaten.  At  another  time,  Harringay  being  seized 
with  an  unaccustomed  fit  of  enthusiasm  at  work  upon 
his  picture  awing  Betty  into  silence  by  the  pre-oc- 
cupation  of  his  manner  and  the  light  that  at  such 
rare  moments  was  in  his  almost  colorless  eyes,  in 
would  come  Yiolet  gently  stealing.  She  would  seat 
herself  at  the  piano  and  play  some  of  those  propitiatory 
soft  melodies  which  seemed  to  suit  her  personality 
so  well. 

Then  good-bye  to  the  portrait  in  oils  !  Out  would 
come  the  sketchbook,  half  filled  already  with  the  face, 
full,  quarter,  three-quarter,  dpwn  bent,  meeting  the 


BETTY  MAKES  A   CONFIDENCE.  39 

gaze  with  wistfully  appealing  eyes,  or  looking  devo- 
tionally  upward,  of  Miss  Belton. 

Perhaps  it  was  because  Violet's  subjects  were  so 
limited,  and  because  Harringay,  for  his  part,  was  so 
sensitive  about  boring  his  hearers  on  themes  in  which 
they  were  not  interested,  or  through  laziness,  or  con- 
straint, or  want  of  material,  that  conversation  was  apt 
to  languish  between  the  lady  at  the  piano  and  the  artist 
with  the  sketchbook  ;  even  to  die  embarrassingly  away. 
A  subject  always  ready  to  hand  is  not  lightly  to  be 
parted  with  under  these  conditions,  and  Harringay 
chose  to  cling  to  that  convenient,  manufactured 
grievance  of  his  with  mock  seriousness  still,  a  serious- 
ness Yiolet  never  dreamed  of  doubting.  She  received 
his  reproaches  with  a  great  solemnity,  and  her  bear- 
ing toward  him  always  evinced  an  anxious  desire  to 
atone  for  that  slight  she  was  accused  of  having  shown 
him. 

"  What  a  baby  she  is,  in  spite  of  her  twenty  years," 
he  said  to  Caroline  Carlyon.  He  was  rather  fond  at 
this  period  of  making  people  talk  about  Miss  Belton. 
"  She  really  is  not  a  fair  match  for  the  smallest  imp  in 
the  Jervois'  household." 

"  I  often  wish  her  more  matured,"  the  mature  Caro- 
line would  avow. 

"  Wishing,  fortunately,  won't  do  it.  She  will  never 
grow  older.  I  can  picture  her  as  sweet,  as  tractable, 
as  easily  duped  and  taken  in  at  seventy  as  she  is  to- 
day, and  very  nearly  as  pretty.  I  would  not  have  her 
altered  by  so  much  as  a  hair  of  her  head." 

"  Of  course  I  am  interested  in  her,  as  Bill  appears 
so  seriously  interested,"  Miss  Carlyon  confessed.  "  I 
could  have  wished  that  Bill  had  waited  longer,  and 
seen  further  first,  but — " 


40  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

"  Oh,  don't  wish  anything  of  the  sort,"  Bill's  friend 
implored.  "  You,  who  are  so  devout,  ought  to  thank 
God  for  the  spectacle  of  anything  so  natural  and 
beautiful  as  their  love  making.  On  his  part  unques- 
tioning adoration  and  devotion,  on  hers  an  uncon- 
scious submission  to  the  old  irresistible  law  drawing 
the  woman  to  the  man.  Their  marriage  will  be  an 
ideal  one.  He  will  give  himself,  body  and  soul,  un- 
hesitating, to  her — and  he  is  a  good  fellow :  while  to 
her  he  will  be  more  than  mere  lord  and  master — as  one 
of  the  sons  of  God." 

"  Well,  really,  how  ridiculous !  I  hope  not,"  Caro- 
line said. 

And  then,  Bill,  with  his  boyish  head,  not  very  well 
carried  as  yet  on  the  shoulders  that  were  too  slight  for 
his  height,  his  long  loose-hanging  legs,  his  general 
look  of  immaturity  and  lack  of  finish,  came  in  and 
put  an  end  to  the  conversation.  Certainly  there  was 
nothing  of  the  demigod  in  the  appearance  of  Bill 
Carlyon. 

"  Isn't  Violet  a  stupid  ?  " 

Harringay  was  lying  back  in  his  chair  on  the  rec- 
tory lawn,  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  uncovered 
head,  his  face  turned  up  to  the  fresh  blue  and  white 
of  the  May  day  sky,  and  Betty  had  brought  her  long- 
haired terrier  in  her  arms  and  squatted  on  the  grass 
alongside.  For  opening  up  of  conversation  she  had 
put  the  above  query. 

"  I  think  her  as  stupid  as  an  owl,"  she  added. 

Because  he  was  not  desirous  of  the  child's  compan- 
ionship just  then  he  let  the  remark  pass  in  silence. 

She  was  accustomed  to  a  cavalier  treatment  from 
him  which  she  would  not  have  endured  for  an  instant 
from  her  older  friend,  the  much-sat-upon  curate,  and 


BETTY  MAKES  A    CONFIDENCE.  41 

in  spite  of  the  absence  of  encouragement  she  pres- 
ently pursued  her  theme. 

"  She  takes  in  all  you  say  to  her,"  she  went  on,  "  I 
know  at  once  when  you  are  only  playing,  but  Violet 
never  knows.  She  quite  believes  you  are  angry  with 
her  about — you  know  what." 

Betty  looked  up  at  the  unresponsive  gentleman 
above  her,  at  the  dark  complexioned  face  whose  irreg- 
ularity of  feature  did  not  always  please  the  beholder, 
and  whose  expression  was  not  often  either  frank  or 
encouraging — not  a  face  children  found  attractive,  as 
a  rule.  But  Betty  loved  to  look  upon  it,  many  a  time 
she  had  tried  to  draw  it  in  her  clever,  untaught  way  ; 
it  was  a  face  that  lent  itself  easily  to  caricature,  but 
to  make  a  pleasing  presentment,  as  Betty  wished,  was 
beyond  the  power  of  her  untutored  pencil.  Still  she 
alwaj's  had  the  matter  in  her  mind  and  was  never 
tired  of  studying  the  original  with  a  view  to  the  copy 
that  some  day  must  "  come  better." 

"  His  eyes  have  no  color,  only  light,"  she  said  to 
herself  now,  gazing  with  eager  inquiry  into  Harrin- 
gay's  narrowed  orbs,  and  storing  up  that  fact  for  fu- 
ture consideration  in  her  mind. 

The  fashion  in  which  the  black  hair  was  parted  low 
on  one  side  and  brushed  in  a  long  sweep  above  the 
forehead  particularly  commended  itself  to  Betty. 
"  Billy  can't  have  his  so  because  it's  short  and  towy, 
and  curls,  but  I  shall  certainty  have  Peter  do  his  hair 
that  way  when  he  grows  up,"  she  said  to  herself,  and 
dragged  "  Mr.  Chipling  "  closer  to  Harringay's  chair. 

The  man  grew  tired  of  his  own  thoughts  after  a 
time  and  looked  down  into  the  attentive  face  of  the 
child. 

"  Why  aren't  you  at  lessons,  pray  ? "  he  inquired. 


42  THE  CEDAR  STAE. 

"It  is  not  a  lessony  sort  of  day,  is  it?  The  sua 
came  in,  and  we  all  felt  we  really  couldn't." 

a  Why  do  you  trouble  to  say  '  we  all  ? '  Why  not 
'  I '  frankly  and  at  once  ?  There  is  a  weak  subter- 
fuge about  the  phrase  which  is  not  in  character." 

She  looked  away  from  his  face  to  Mr.  Chipling's 
ears,  with  which  she  was  playing,  being  not  quite  sure 
how  to  answer  him. 

"  About  what  does  Violet  think  I  am  angry  ?  " 

She  looked  up  quickly  :  u  I  call  that  subterfuge- 
ous,"  she  said,  "  because  you  know  quite  well.  You 
are  always  teasing  her  about  it.  And  once  you  teased 
her  so  much  that  after  you  were  gone  she  cried. 
Fancy  wearing  your  hair  done  up,  and  being  such  a 
baby  as  to  cry  !  Even  Emily  doesn't  cry  now.  Not 
often." 

"  Poor  wretch  I  Rather  not  I  Emily's  sister  is  too 
much  of  a  Spartan  to  approve  of  tears." 

"  Only  Ian  cries  a  little,  sometimes,  but  she  always 
hides  up  to  do  it.  And  Yiolet  is  twenty  1  " 

"  And  Yiolet  cried  1  "  the  young  man  said.  His 
face  had  lightened  in  that  peculiarly  vivid  manner, 
which,  as  Miss  Carlyon  had  discovered,  made  it  so  at- 
tractive ;  the  narrow,  deep-set  grey  eyes  shone  and 
sparkled  like  jewels  hid  in  caves,  and  Betty  noticed 
how  soft  and  dreamy  was  his  voice.  She  considered 
him  wistfully  for  a  few  minutes.  She  had  thought 
he  would  have  despised  weeping  women  as  she  did. 
It  was  abundantly  evident  he  did  no  such  thing. 
The  discovery  gave  her  courage  to  make  a  confidence 
she  would  not  otherwise  have  dreamed  possible. 

"  I  cried  last  night,"  she  told  him  on  the  impulse 
of  the  moment  in  a  shamed  voice  that  shook  a  little. 
She  waited,  expecting  to  see  him  overcome  by  the 


BETTY  MAKES  A   CONFIDENCE.  43 

stupendous  announcement,  but  Harringay  carefully 
concealed  his  emotion.  "  Emily  and  Ian  forget,"  she 
went  on,  "  but  I  am  older — I  never  forget.  Last 
night  the  church  bells  rang ;  and  someone  walked 
upon  the  gravel  beneath  my  window.  I  could  hear 
their  voices — soft,  you  know — and  the  crunch,  crunch 
of  their  feet.  I  don't  know  why  that  has  such  a 
melancholy  sound." 

"  Billy  Carlyon  and  your  cousin  Violet  spooning 
out  in  the  moonlight,  I  suppose,"  Harringay  re- 
marked, gruff,  perhaps,  through  excess  of  sympathy. 

But  Betty  would  not  be  diverted  from  her  own  af- 
fairs. "  I  cry  at  that  kind  of  sorrowful  thing  since 
my  mamma  died,"  she  explained,  almost  in  a  whisper. 

From  the  day  of  her  death,  Betty  Jervois  had 
scarcely  been  heard  to  mention  her  mother's  name. 
She  had  shrunk  from  the  word  on  other  lips  as  from 
a  touch  on  an  open  wound.  This  acutest  stage  of 
grief  past,  and  the  longing  rising  within  her  to  speak 
of  what  was  still  the  most  intimate  thought  of  her 
heart,  lo,  no  one  cared  to  listen,  or  seemed  to  care — 
no  one  understood ! 

Her  father  was  kind  and  indulgent — more  from  the 
indolence  of  his  nature  than  from  its  affectionateness, 
as  Betty  well  understood  without  knowing  that  she 
understood  it.  Not  the  kind  of  father  that  could  ever 
be  something  of  a  mother  too.  The  other  children 
seemed  to  have  wept  away  their  grief  before  the 
mould  had  fallen  on  the  mother's  coffin.  Ian  had 
danced  with  delight  because  she  had  been  promoted 
to  stockings  on  the  funeral  day.  Betty  had  never  for- 
given it.  The  servants  with  whom  they  had  been 
much  thrown  had  held  up  the  dead  mother  as  a  kind 
of  bogey  to  the  refractory  eldest  child. 


44  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

"  What  would  your  poor  ma  say  if  she  knowed 
what  a  bad  girl  you've  growed  into,  Miss  Betty  ?  "  or 
"  Don't  you  make  no  mistake,  your  ma's  lookin'  down 
on  you,  Miss  Betty  !  Don't  you  ever  go  to  think  she's 
covered  in  her  grave,  and  don't  know  what  a  messy 
girl  you  are  wi'  your  pinnyfores,  and  how  you're  that 
cheeky,  folks  are  driven  to  slap  your  face !  " 

How  could  Betty  confide  the  history  of  that  fre- 
quent tear-wetted  pillow  to  such  as  these  ? 

She  had  thought  of  telling  Billy  how  sad  her  heart 
was  at  times,  and  how,  even  when  she  was  at  her  very 
naughtiest,  she  longed  for  her  mother.  But  Billy 
would  tell  Violet,  and  Betty  had  posed  as  a  giant  of 
self-possession  to  Violet. 

But  Mr.  Harringay  !  He  had  praised  her  draw- 
ings, he  thought  her  clever  and  pretty.  Perhaps  he 
would  understand  this  strange  sadness  of  hers.  She 
thought  that  to  him,  alone,  in  the  world,  she  could 
bear  to  speak  of  her  mother,  to  tell  him  how  pretty 
she  was,  and  how  her  eldest  daughter  had  never  been 
in  disgrace  in  her  time,  but  had  been  always  petted 
and  loved  and  admired.  He  would  never  tell,  and 
since  he  was  such  a  generally  comprehending  person 
he  would  understand.  She  looked  at  him  with  eyes 
that  besought  him  for  sympathy  and  comfort — if  he 
had  only  noticed  the  expression. 

"  Since  my  mamma  died — "  began  Betty  again,  falt- 
eringly. 

A  figure  in  a  pink  cotton  dress,  belted  at  the  slim 
waist,  with  white  collar  and  cufi's  turning  back  from 
slender  wrists  and  throat,  appeared  at  the  drawing- 
room  window,  threw  up  the  sash,  leaned  out  into  the 
sunlight.  Tones  of  agonized  remonstrance  floated 
across  to  the  two  on  the  lawn. 


BETTY  MAKES  A   CONFIDENCE.  45 

Harringay,  in  the  deck  chair  beneath  the  cedar, 
stared  into  alert  attention. 

lan's  black  kitten,  stretched  to  the  utmost  inch  on 
the  warm  gravel  before  the  window,  watched  with  an 
eye  that  boded  no  good  to  its  object,  a  half-fledged 
sparrow  fallen  from  its  nest. 

Yiolet  was  so  intent  on  the  fate  of  the  bird, — so  en- 
gaged in  placing  before  Paul  arguments  against  the 
killing  and  eating  of  the  hapless  fledgling — that  she 
did  not  see  Harringay  advancing  over  the  grass.  She 
gave  a  start  and  a  cry  when  he  stood  before  her,  and 
Paul,  stretching  a  swift  stealthy  paw,  made  short 
work  of  the  sparrow. 

"  I'm  so  sorry  if  I  startled  you,"  Harringay  said,  in 
tones  so  gentle  that  Violet's  heart  stood  still,  and  she 
thought  no  one  had  ever  heard  the  like. 

Betty  looked  after  the  pair  within  the  drawing- 
room,  receding  from  the  window,  "  He  never  even 
heard  1 "  she  said. 

She  must  be  loyal  above  all  things.  It  could  not 
be  that  he  had  heard  and  had  not  cared  !  But  her 
lip  quivered,  and  she  knew  that  she  would  never  at- 
tempt to  make  to  anyone  that  confidence  again. 

She  ran  across  to  the  gravel  where  the  kitten  lay  in 
the  sunshine.  He  was  growling  and  purring  over  the 
victim  now,  enjoying  the  first  fruits  of  the  spring  after 
his  kind.  The  bird  was  not  a  pretty  object  when  his 
remains  were  released.  Emily's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 
She  was  permitted  to  weep  over  the  death  of  a  sparrow ; 
it  was  only  the  tragedies  affecting  human-kind  which 
in  the  little  Jervois's  code  were  held  unworthy  of  tears. 

"  Let's  have  a  funeral,"  said  Ian.  "  And  mightn't 
darling  Paulie  have  just  one  other  tiny  bit  of  him, 
first  ?  " 


46  THE  CEDAR  STAR. 


CHAPTER  Y. 

HARRINGAY   WITHDRAWS. 

"  Do  I  seem  to  you  such  a  terrible  ogre  ?  "  Harrin- 
gay  asked. 

Eyes,  dark  blue,  wondering,  admiring,  afraid,  opened 
upon  his.  u  An  ogre?  Oh,  no,  Mr.  Harringay." 

She  was  breathless,  her  heart  was  beating — if  only 
she  could  get  away  ! 

He  laid  a  hand  upon  her  arm  :  "  Don't  go.  You 
always  go.  I  want  to  ask  you  a  question.  You  will 
answer  it  ?  " 

"  Of  course.     Yes." 

"Truthfully?" 

"  Of  course." 

"  You  look  at  me — always — with  the  gaze  of  a 
frightened  animal  whose  master  holds  the  whip. 
Why?" 

She  shook  her  head,  trying  to  smile  carelessly,  look- 
ing upon  the  ground. 

"  You  don't  know  why  ?  " 

Another  shake  of  the  head. 

"  You  don't  think  I  could  be  unkind  to  you,  do 
you  ? " 

"  No.     Oh,  no  !  " 

"  Then  why  are  you  afraid  ?  " 

Silence. 

"  If  we  are  alone  for  a  second  you  rush  away.  If  I 
look  at  you,  you  turn  your  head.  Why  ? " 

No  answer.     A  hanging  head  and  a  suddenly  awak- 


BARRING  AY  WITHDRAWS.  47 

ened  interest  in  the  fastening  of  one  of  the  stiff  white 
cuffs. 

"  You  can't  guess." 

"  No." 

"  May  I  guess?" 

Eyes  reproachful,  imploring,  swiftly  lifted  and 
dropped  again. 

"  You  think  the  curate  mightn't  approve." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Harringay,  please !  " — 

"  It  is  to  be  his  privilege  to  ask  for  and  get  an  ac- 
count of  all  your  glances,  I  suppose  ?  To  see  his  own 
image  in  your  eyes  till  the  crack  of  doom  ?  To  look 
down  deep  into  that  innocent  heart  of  }rours  and  to 
find  his  own  name  writ  large  upon  it — and  nothing 
but  that?  Isn't  that  so?" 

"  I  don't  know,  indeed.     How  should  I  know  ?  " 

"  Betty  says  you  cried  once  after  I  had  gone  away 
at  something  I  had  said.  Is  that  so  ?  " 

She  fidgetted  with  shaking  fingers  at  the  ivory 
links  in  her  wristband,  tears  of  embarrassment  were 
in  her  eyes.  He  repeated  his  question  and  waited. 

"  I  thought  you  were  vexed  with  me,"  at  length  she 
said.  u  You  seemed  to  wish  to  punish  me — never 
singing.  Betty  said  you  hated  me.  It  was  dread- 
fully babyish  to  cry." 

"  If  I  had  been  there — "  he  began.  His  voice  was 
the  swiftest  whisper  caressing  her  cheek,  but  Violet's 
slight  strength  of  resistance  melted  beneath  it  and  the 
tightened  pressure  upon  her  arm.  She  felt  herself 
losing  not  only  strength  but  consciousness,  sinking 
toward  him. 

Then  his  hand  suddenly  dropped  from  her  arm,  he 
drew  back  a  couple  of  paces  and  the  light  went  out 
from  his  face. 


48  TEE  CEDAR  STAB. 

A  voice  had  sounded  in  the  hall.  Violet's  eyes, 
awake  now  and  full  of  startled  dismay,  met  Harrin- 
gay's. 

"  The  curate,"  Harringay  said,  and  turned  to  the 
mirror  and  rubbed  a  finger  curiously  across  a  crimson 
streak  that  had  appeared  upon  his  forehead,  and  was 
sullenly  dying  away. 

In  a  few  moments  he  was  alone,  watching  the  pair 
move  off  toward  the  tennis-lawn.  Violet  was  not  in- 
clined to  the  game  and  went  with  evident  reluctance. 
She  had  not  much  savoir  faire,  poor  girl.  To  deceive 
had  not  been  among  the  simple  lessons  life  had  taught 
her.  A  lucky  thing  that  the  curate  was  quite  of  the 
sucking  pig  order  of  simplicity,  Harringay  thought 
with  uneasiness,  looking  after  them. 

"  With  that  exasperatingly  shame-faced  manner  of 
hers  and  that  telltale  face  another  man  would  have 
known  I  had  been  making  love  to  the  girl,"  he  said  to 
himself. 

He  was  grateful  now  to  chance  for  having  sent 
Carlyon  upon  the  scene. 

"  God  knows  I  don't  want,"  he  said,  "  I  should  be 
sick  of  her  in  a  month — fit  to  cut  my  throat.  Poor 
Bill — darling  old  greenhorn ! — will  never  discover  that 
she's  not  a  brilliant  companion.  They'll  go  on  boring 
each  other  to  extinction  all  the  daj's  of  their  lives  and 
never  be  a  bit  the  wiser.  I  don't  want  to  interfere. 
I  think  I'm  well  out  of  it.  I  think  I've  had  enough 
of  Blow  Weston.  I'll  go  awaj'." 

He  went  and  came  at  his  own  will.  When  he  said 
he  was  leaving  on  the  morrow,  none  of  them  guessed 
that  it  was  a  long  farewell  he  meditated.  But  he  had 
it  in  his  mind  all  that  evening  and  was  moody  and 
silent,  in  consequence. 


HARRINGAY  WITHDRAWS.  49 

When  it  was  nearly  over  he  broke  the  silence  he 
had  held  for  some  time.  He  had  been  looking  openly 
and  steadily  at  Violet,  who  with  her  head  bent  low 
over  some  work  in  her  hands,  had  blushed,  and  paled, 
and  quivered,  a  betrayal  of  her  consciousness  of  his 
gaze. 

"  Shall  I  sing  you  something  now  ? "  he  asked  her 
abruptly. 

She  got  up  and  went  to  the  piano  and  nervously 
held  him  up  a  song  or  two  with  Bill's  name  written 
across  the  corner  of  each. 

"Nothing  of  the  curate's — thanks,"  he  said  for  her 
ear  alone. 

He  made  his  own  selection.  u  This  old  thing  will 
do — I'll  sing  this,"  he  said.  "  I'm  going  to  sing  to 
you — to  you  alone,"  he  announced  as  he  bent  forward 
to  place  the  music.  "  The  others  don't  exist  for  either 
of  us,  please,  for  a  few  moments." 

He  had  chosen  a  song  much  in  vogue  a  few  years 
before  in  musical  drawing-rooms — Yiolet  had  heard  it 
sung  till  her  ear  had  wearied  of  it — an  ardent  declara- 
tion of  love  which  was  to  cling  with  might  and  main, 
and  to  last  for  ever  and  ever.  And  it  was  sung  for 
Violet — that  little  girl  of  hitherto  absolutely  no  im- 
portance, sitting  at  the  piano  in  her  one  evening  frock, 
of  pale  gray  merino,  plajring  the  accompaniment  to 
the  passionate  voice,  with  fingers  that  trembled  pain- 
fully, and  with  a  heart  moved  to  the  core  ! 

While  she  was  still  bewildered,  thrilled,  stricken, 
lost  in  a  maze  of  overwhelming  emotion,  Harringay 
was  holding  out  his  hand  to  her  in  silent  farewell. 

When  Miss  Carlyon  had  gone  to  bed  that  night, 
Harringay  recovered  from  his  fit  of  moody  sentimen- 
tality, and  his  friend  "  the  greenhorn  "  curate,  sat  and 
4 


50  IRE  CEDAR  STAB. 

smoked  the  pipe  of  friendship — of  short  confidences 
and  long  silences,  over  the  study  fire. 

"  You  made  a  mistake  in  taking  holy  orders,  as  1 
always  told  you,"  Harringay  said,  taking  up  again  the 
thread  of  a  conversation  dropped  some  time  before. 
"  You  aren't  in  any  way  fitted  for  it  that  I  see.  And 
mind  you,  I  don't  mean  that  for  an  ill  compliment." 

"  Who  is  fitted  for  it  ?  "  Bill  asked,  but  indifferently, 
as  if  his  mind  were  not  fully  occupied  by  the  theme. 
"  Though,  very  likely,  in  my  case  there  are  special  dis- 
abilities," he  added  humbly.  "  My  opinion  was  not 
asked :  no  choice  was  given  me.  One  of  my  uncles 
happens  to  be  a  general,  the  other  is  a  bishop.  You 
can  see,  plain  enough,  that  my  mother  had  got  to 
make  one  of  her  two  sons  a  soldier,  and  to  stick  the 
other  into  the  Church.  Tom  wouldn't  go  into  the 
Church — that's  all.  I  shall  always  be  a  stick  of  a 
preacher  (I've  a  constitutional  objection  to  jawing 
about  anything),  and  I've  no  special  aptitude  or  liking 
for  any  of  the  duties  ;  but  there  'tis ;  and  I've  got  to 
make  the  best  of  it.  I'd  rather  be  in  Tom's  shoes, 
seeing  about  me,  and  having  a  good  time,  generally  ; 
but  it's  more  than  certain  he  never  would  have  stood 
in  mine,  so  there's  no  good  in  thinking  about  it." 

"  But  there  is  good.  Why  should  you  be  buried 
alive  because  you  are  too  feeble  minded  to  shout  ? 
If  you  must  stick  to  the  Church,  go  into  the  manu- 
facturing districts — take  a  curacy  in  a  London  slum." 

"  Yes,"  Bill  said  slowly,  "  I  know.  But  we  can't 
all  be  pushing  to  the  front.  It's  useful  in  its  way,  to 
keep  the  place  we're  given,  I  expect.  I  should  feel  a 
lot  prouder  of  myself  if  I  were  fighting  vice  and 
fever  and  ignorance  in  the  way  you  mention  ;  but  the 
fact  of  my  having  gratified  a  private  ambition  wouldn't 


EARRING  AY   WITHDRAWS.  51 

make  for  the  good  of  the  world.  Because,  somebody 
must  be  curate  of  Blow  Weston  and  Crabberton,  you 
see,  while  the  livings  go  together." 

Harringay  was  naturally  not  convinced,  but  the 
other  tacitly  declined  to  carry  on  the  discussion.  He 
thought  over  several  reasons  which  satisfied  him  that 
his  life  need  not  necessarily  be  empty  and  cast  away 
even  in  Blow  Weston,  but  these  were  such  as  he  did 
not  care  to  drag  out  for  disputation.  If  he  felt  a 
thing  strongly,  u '  Come  then,  let  us  go  and  be 
dumb,'  "  Bill  Carlyon  said  to  his  hurt.  "  We've  got 
to  stick  where  we're  put  and  to  do  the  best  we  can,  I 
suppose,"  he  said,  summarizing  the  articles  of  his  be- 
lief with  the  least  possible  waste  of  breath  ;  and  he 
knocked  out  his  pipe  to  emphasize  the  fact  that  that 
was  for  him  the  end  of  the  matter. 

u  But — pardon  me — that  is  exactly  where  you  are 
wrong,  Bill,"  the  other  persisted.  "  To  stick  where 
we  are  is  generally  the  very  worst  and  feeblest  thing 
we  can  do.  4  To  make  the  best  of  it,'  is  a  phrase, 
simply — what  does  it  mean  ?  put  on  a  grinning  face 
when  you're  cursing  in  your  heart.  Who's  the  bet- 
ter for  that  pantomime  ?  "  Then  he  too  leaned  forward 
and  knocked  out  the  ashes  of  his  pipe  on  the  bars  of 
the  grate.  "  Chuck  the  whole  thing,  Bill,  and  come 
with  me  to  Paris ;  and  let's  wake  the  echoes  for  a 
bit,  and  live  to  be  thankful  before  we  die,"  he  sug- 
gested. 

To  this  extravagant  proposition  the  curate  did  not 
even  reply.  But  he  was  at  length  roused  to  a  fuller 
interest :  "  Are  you  going  back  to  Paris,  then  ?  "  he 
asked  and  looked  the  other  man  straight  in  the  eyes. 
"  Why  ?  " 

"  I'm  sharing  Lawson's  studio,  as  I  told  you.     I 


52  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

only  came  over  to  give  the  mother  a  look,  and  have 
knocked  about  longer  than  I  intended.  I  shall  be  off 
to-morrow  or  the  next  day." 

"  I  have  often  wondered  what  has  kept  you  here," 
Bill  admitted,  with  his  direct  gaze.  u  I  have  some- 
times thought  there  might  be  a  special  attraction. 
Do  you  mind  telling  me  if  that  is  so  ?  " 

Harringay  got  up  from  his  chair  and  stamped  his 
feet  upon  the  rug  to  shake  his  trousers  into  position. 
"  The  attraction  of  much  kindness  and  hospitality," 
he  said,  as  he  looked  down  upon  his  nether  garments. 
"  The  attraction  of  pleasant  companionship  and  pretty, 
kind  faces." 

"  Nothing  more  special  than  that  ?  "  the  downright 
curate  persisted.  "  Tell  me  if  it  is  so,  Harringay.  I 
made  up  my  mind  to  ask  you  to-night.  It  isn't  idle 
curiosity.  It's — "  His  florid  color  faded  a  little 
and  his  eyes  left  the  other  man's  face.  "  You  know 
what  I  mean,"  he  went  on  in  a  minute.  u  I  mean 
Yiolet  Belton.  If  you  have  any  feeling  about  her — 
any  intention,  I  should  like  to  know  at  once.  It 
would  be  kindness  in  you  to  tell  me." 

"  None,  I  have  none,"  Harringay  said,  and  having 
uttered  the  words  ceased  to  concern  himself  about  the 
set  of  his  trousers,  and  stood  upright,  steady  as  a 
rock,  his  lips  locked  as  though  the}7  never  would  open 
again,  his  jaw  hard  and  strong  looking. 

The  curate  got  up  and  placed  himself  on  the  hearth- 
rug beside  his  friend.  He  was  the  taller  by  several 
inches,  and  being  high  shouldered,  short-waisted,  long 
in  the  leg,  he  appeared  to  have  greatty  the  advantage 
in  height  over  Harringay's,  well-built,  firmly  knit 
frame  for  strength.  But  the  latter,  only  a  couple  of 
years  older  than  the  curate,  looked  a  man  and  a  strong 


HAERINGAY  WITHDRAWS.  53 

one,  while  Carlyon  had  still  something  of  the  appear- 
ance of  a  lanky,  overgrown  boy. 

"  You  aren't  mad  with  me  for  asking  ?  "  Bill  said 
presently  and  he  put  a  propitiatory  hand  upon  the 
other's  steady  shoulder.  u  It  seems  to  me  such  a  lot 
of  mischief  is  done  because  people  are  afraid  to  speak 
out.  There  is  nothing  between  her  and  me — except 
what  is  in  my  own  mind — at  present.  If  I  knew  for 
certain  what  I  have  sometimes  fancied  that  you  have 
for  her  something  of  the  same  feeling  that  I  have,  I 
should  know  it  was  all  up  with  me  and  the  thing 
would  be  over  and  no  harm  done — to  her." 

Harringay  was  moved  to  generosity  by  the  humility 
of  the  speech  and  proceeded  to  set  the  poor  fellow's 
fears  thoroughly  at  rest. 

"  I  admire  your  Yiolet  sincerely,"  he  said.  "  That 
she  was  yours — predestined  from  the  beginning — I 
never  doubted,  I  wish  you  every  joy,  Bill — but  my 
dear  fellow,  you  mustn't  be  angry  that  I  don't  envy 
you.  I  was  not  made  for  constancy.  I  wouldn't 
have  your  prospect  of  an  unbroken  domesticity,  even 
with  your  Yiolet  by  my  side,  for  half  the  world  holds." 
He  shuddered  and  shook  off  Bill's  hand  from  his 
shoulder.  "  Bah  ! ''  he  cried,  "  the  contemplation  fills 
me  with  a  miserable  dejection.  I  should  blow  my 
brains  out  in  a  week.  I  am  half  tempted  to  do  it  vi- 
cariously— to-night — for  you,  Bill." 

Bill  straightened  himself,  expanded  his  chest  and 
drew  a  long  breath. 

"  Ah  !  It's  lucky  we  look  at  things  with  such  dif- 
ferent eyes,  isn't  it  ?  "  he  said,  "  but  it's  so  hard  to 
realize — that's  how  I  came  to  make  the  mistake." 

"  You  made  it  because  you're  a  jealous  old  fool, 
Bill." 


54  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

Bill  laughed  unsteadily.  "  I  don't  believe  I  am," 
he  said,  "  I  suppose  I  can't  help  thinking  that  every- 
one who  comes  near  her  must  be  in  love  with  her." 

"  Shut  up  and  come  to  bed  I  "  said  Harringay. 

And  to  bed  they  went. 


UNCLE  EUSTACE  INTERVENES.  55 


CHAPTER  VI. 

UNCLE  EUSTACE  INTERVENES. 

WHEN  Carlyon  opened  tbe  door  of  the  schoolroom 
that  afternoon  he  was  greeted  with  the  shout  of  relief 
with  which  the  young  Jervoises  hailed  the  prospect 
of  any  respite  from  their  lessons.  But  there  were 
two  pairs  of  eyes  that  looked  past  him  and  the  door 
he  held  in  his  hand,  to  the  two  pairs  of  lips  the  same 
question  leapt,  and  of  these  one  pair  was  dumb. 

"  Where's  Mr.  Harringay  ?  "  Betty  cried,  demand- 
ing him  fiercely  of  the  curate,  who  had  had  the  temer- 
ity to  appear  without  the  companion  from  whom  he 
borrowed  all  the  interest  he  could  now  command. 

"  Harringay's  gone." 

Alas  for  Billy  Carlyon  !  The  light  that  died  out  of 
a  couple  of  faces  ! 

"  Then  why  did  you  let  him  go  ?  "  Betty  cried,  and 
scowled  at  Carlyon  with  eyes  dagger-pointed,  and 
flung  the  book  she  held,  face  downward,  on  the  table. 
"  When's  he  coming  back  ?" 

"  Never,  very  likely.  Harringay's  an  erratic  chap. 
He's  off  to-day  to  Paris.  Aren't  lessons  over,  Miss 
Belton  ?  " 

"  If  you  like,  I  suppose,"  Miss  Belton  said — "  if 
the  children  like." 

The  two  younger  children,  waiting  for  nothing  more 
definite,  flung  out  of  the  room  in  search  of  hats  and 
Paul  the  kitten  ;  only  Betty  kept  her  chair,  lying 
back  in  it,  her  chin  on  her  breast,  the  picture  of 
scowling  dejection. 


56  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

"  I  don't  care  for  a  holiday,"  she  said,  addressing  no 
one  in  particular,  with  severity,  "  where's  the  good  of 
a  holiday  now  ?  " 

"  Why  are  you  looking  like  such  a  little  fiend  ? " 
Bill  asked  her  with  irritation.  "  What's  up  with  you 
now  ?  " 

"  I  wished  for  Mr.  Harringay.  There's  no  good  in 
holidays  without  him." 

Violet  looked  at  the  child  fearlessly  giving  utter- 
ance to  the  thought  of  her  own  heart.  What  was  the 
good  of  anything  without  him  for  ever — ever  more  ? 
In  a  minute  what  a  darkness  had  fallen  upon  the 
sweet  May  day !  How  senseless  all  life  was !  How 
dreary  1  Lessons  or  no  lessons — what  did  it  matter 
now? 

"  Don't  be  an  ass,  Betty,"  Bill  said.  He  did  not 
understand  the  full  seriousness  of  the  situation,  but 
he,  too,  was  laboring  under  a  sudden  sense  of  disap- 
pointment and  discomfort.  The  child  sank  lower  and 
lower  in  her  chair,  sliding  dejectedly  over  the  wooden 
seat.  He  tilted  it  suddenly  as  he  spoke,  and  Betty 
disappeared  under  the  table. 

She  was  by  no  means  above  rough  play  of  that  or 
any  other  description,  but  she  flew  up  now  and  at- 
tacked the  curate  with  the  fierceness  of  a  little  wild 
cat,  hitting  out  at  him  blindly  with  feminine  disregard 
of  consequence. 

"  Young  woman  !  It's  time  you  were  brought  to 
your  senses,"  the  curate  said.  Then  he  caught  her 
wrists,  and  looking  in  her  face  saw  that  her  eyes  were 
full  of  tears.  In  her  rage  and  shame  that  he  should 
discover  in  her  that  weakness,  she  ducked  her  head 
swiftly,  and  bit  the  hand  that  held  her. 


UNCLE  EUSTACE  INTERVENES.  57 

"  Oh,  Betty ! "  Violet  cried,  awaking  from  her 
apathy.  "  For  shame  1  You  are  hurting  him.  You 
have  made  Mr.  Carlyon's  hand  bleed." 

He  held  the  child  for  a  minute  before  him  and 
looked  into  her  face,  shamed  and  passionate,  and 
forced  her  to  look  into  his ;  then  stooped  and  kissed 
her,  and  let  her  go. 

Choking  with  the  sobs  to  which  she  would  not  give 
way,  Betty  escaped.  In  the  hall  was  Ian,  a  strange 
little  fat  figure  in  the  scarlet  pinafore,  with  a  soft- 
peaked  cloth  cap,  much  too  large  for  her,  pulled  well 
down  over  eyes  and  ears. 

"  Oh,  Betty,  I'm  so  glad  he's  gone  !  "  she  cried. 
"  Emily's  taken  the  riding  whip  he  left  behind,  and 
I've  got  his  cap — look  !  for  my  very  own  ;  and — " 

Betty  fetched  the  little  sister  a  box  on  the  ears,  and 
tore  the  cap,  some  of  lan's  red-brown  curls  adhering, 
from  the  astonished  head  :  "  You  dare  to  touch  his 
things  !  "  she  cried,  but  further  speech  was  beyond 
her.  She  stamped  her  foot  furiously  at  the  frightened 
child  and,  sobbing  loudly  now,  rushed  away  from 
mortal  ken. 

An  half  hour  later  the  curate,  walking  slowly,  and 
with  hanging  head  on  his  homeward  way,  saw,  be- 
neath the  thorn  hedge  which  bordered  his  small  do- 
main, a  scarlet  bundle  lying.  The  bundle,  erecting  it- 
self at  his  approach,  proved  to  be  no  other  than  Betty 
Jervois  with  broken  hat,  disheveled  hair  to  which 
twigs  and  little  bits  of  moss  were  clinging,  and  white 
face  where  stains  of  the  bank  upon  which  she  had 
been  lying  mingled  with  the  stain  of  tears. 

She  uttered  no  word,  but  sprang  upon  him,  dragged 
from  the  trousers-pocket  in  which  it  was  hidden  the 


58  THE  CEDAR  STAR. 

hand  she  had  maltreated  and,  pressing  her  lips  upon 
it,  kissed  it  again  and  again.  Then,  with  a  swift  and 
passionate  movement  eluding  the  grasp  he  would 
have  laid  on  her,  she  turned  and  fled  across  the  meadow 
home. 

Alas  poor  Betty  !  In  all  her  battles  always  the 
worst  wounded,  even  in  those  early  days  I 

The  curate  did  not  even  turn  his  head  to  look  after 
her.  He  was  staggering  under  a  worse  blow  than 
any  Betty  had  dealt  him.  The  wound  in  his  heart 
was  so  sore  that  he  knew  of  no  other,  and  did  not  re- 
member until  long  after  why  Betty  had  kissed  his 
hand. 

He  had  put  the  momentous  question  to  Yiolet  Bel- 
ton  and  she  had  said  him  nay. 

He  kept  away  from  the  rectory  for  two  days,  and 
then  the  rector,  who  was  accustomed  to  the  young 
man's  presence  about  the  place,  came  across  for  him 
and  Carlyon  told  him  of  what  had  befallen  him. 

Mr.  Jervois  was  overwhelmed.  Hardly  surprised, 
however,  as  he  honestly  believed  in  a  conspiring  of 
circumstance  to  bring  about  his  own  personal  dis- 
comfort. And  here  would  be  an  unspeakable  nuisance 
— to  have  his  curate  banished  from  his  house — here 
would  be  a  scandal  in  the  parish  and  an  annoyance 
all  round.  Here  was  a  matter  too,  calling  for  the 
stirring  up  of  himself,  a  man  only  asking  peace  and 
leisure,  to  the  taking  of  disagreeable  action.  Besides 
it  had  been  a  suitable  match  for  his  sister's  child  to 
make,  and  one  that  would  cement  interests  all  round. 

"  Refused  you  ?  "  he  said,  staring  at  the  young 
man  with  the  plaintively  worried  look  his  face  as- 
sumed when  things  went  wrong.  "  How  extremely 


UNCLE  EUSTACE  INTERVENES.  59 

inconsiderate  of  Yiolet !  But  she  couldn't  mean  it — 
she  didn't  understand.  I  am  quite  sure  she  didn't 
understand  what  you  meant,  Bill." 

"  She  quite  understood,"  Bill  said  dismally.  "  I — 
think  I  put  it  to  her  more  than  once." 

He  was  silent,  feeling  over  again  the  shock  of  the 
stunning  blow  when  it  had  first  fallen.  Speech  was 
very  difficult,  he  didn't  wish  to  have  to  talk. 

"But  I  shall  have  to  speak  to  her.  I  shall  have 
to  ask  what  she  means.  She  must  be  made  to  see 
what  she  is  doing.  It  must  be  put  before  her." 

Carlyon  stretched  out  a  deprecating  hand : 
"  Please  1  "  he  said,  "  I  would  rather  she  was  worried 
no  more.  It  is  my  misfortune,  but  of  course,  she 
must  please  herself." 

"  Of  course,  of  course.  Yet  if  she  altered  her 
mind,  as  she  might  do — women  do  it,  Bill — that  would 
be  acceptable  to  you,  eh  ?  You  haven't  altered 
yours? " 

Bill  smiled  sickly,  "  I  am  not  likely  to  alter,"  he 
said. 

The  same  afternoon  a  messenger  was  sent  across  to 
Queen  Anne's  Cottage  :  "  Would  Mr.  Carlyon  go  at 
once  ? " 

The  children  greeted  him,  hanging  about  in  the 
hall. 

"  You're  to  go  into  the  library,"  Emily  told  him 
with  giggling  glee,  u  father's  scolding  Violet,  and 
Violet's  crying." 

Ian  jumped  with  much  enjoyment  of  the  cheerful 
situation,  then,  standing  the  long  suffering  black 
kitten  on  his  hind  legs,  addressed  to  that  unconscious 
animal  remarks  which  caused  the  curate  to  guess  that 


60  THE  CEDAR  STAR. 

the  library-door  must  have  stood  ajar  during  the  in- 
terview between  the  uncle  and  niece. 

"  You  have  other  people  to  think  of,  my  dear  Paul," 
Ian  said  grasping  two  little  paws  in  one  hand  and 
lifting  an  admonishing  finger  above  the  kitten's  black 
nose.  "  A  girl  hasn't  got  nothing  but  her  own  feel- 
ings to  think  of!  And  what  have  you  got  against  the 
young  man,  Paul  ?  Stand  up  straight  on  your  darling 
little  hind  legs  and  tell  me." 

Here  Betty,  with  her  famous  imitation  of  her 
father's  manner,  took  up  the  parable  : 

"  Surely  you  owe  me  some  consideration,  my  dear 
girl.  Haven't  I  had  trouble  enough  ?  Don't  you 
think  you  owe  it  to  me  to  try  to  make  matters  a  little 
pleasant  ?  Ian  !  "  with  a  swift  reassumption  of  her 
own  personality.  "  What  are  you  pinching  Paulie's 
tail  for  ?  " 

"  Yiolet  cried  just  there,  I  wanted  to  make  Paul 
mew  a  tiny  bit,"  explained  Ian. 

Signs  of  the  tears  were  still  present  on  Violet's 
cheek  of  delicate  fairness,  as  Carlyon  took  her  hand. 
He  pressed  it  firmly  and  his  heart  swelled  with  anger 
and  pity.  She  had  been  bullied  on  his  account !  He 
would  not  bear  it  for  an  instant.  He  would  give  up 
all  hope  of  happiness  eternally  rather  than  she  should 
suffer  through  him.  Mr.  Jervois  was  startled  at  the 
savage  look  in  the  ordinarily  kind  blue  eyes  that  the 
young  man  turned  on  him. 

"  My  dear  Bill — you  must  excuse  my  sending  for 
you,"  the  rector  said,  "  It  is  as  I  expected.  You 
were  a  little  hasty  in  the  deduction  you  drew.  Yiolet 
had  no  intention  of  speaking  finally.  She  would  like 
to  reconsider  her  answer  if  you  will  allow  her." 


UNCLE  EUSTACE  INTERVENES.  61 

"  I  didn't  give  you  authority  to  bother  her  into 
saying  that,"  Bill  said,  with  anger,  "  I  made  no  mis- 
take, nor  did  she.  She  meant  to  refuse  me,  and  she 
did  it ;  and  I  suppose  I'm  man  enough  to  abide  by 
what  she  wishes.  I  hope,"  he  said  very  tenderly,  and 

turning  to  the  girl,  " 1  hope  you  do  not  believe 

that  I  wished  to  complain  ?  " 

He  had  lost  all  his  boyishness  in  that  moment. 
Yiolet,  contemplating  him  through  her  wet  lashes, 
saw  in  him  a  strong  power,  willing  and  able  to  pro- 
tect the  weak  and  oppressed.  How  could  she 
have  had  the  boldness  to  refuse  him  ?  Her  uncle 
had  asked  her  that  question — she  asked  it  of  herself 
now. 

She  had  given  a  promise  to  her  uncle,  and  presently 
she  spoke  in  fulfilment  of  it ;  "I  am  quite  sure  you 
would  not  complain,"  she  said  falteringly.  "  But  I 
should  like,  if  you  will  allow  me,  to  have  time  to 
think  over  the — what  you  asked  me — before  I  finally 
reply." 

Bill's  red  face  grew  redder  with  surprise  and  emo- 
tion ;  disregarding  the  rector's  presence,  he  took 
her  hands  in  his.  "  Are  you  sure  of  that  ?  Quite 
sure  ?  "  he  asked,  earnest  and  eager.  "  It  is  your  own 
wish — not  put  into  your  head — 3^011  haven't  been 
forced  into  saying  this  to  me  ?  " 

"  Really,  Bill !  "  the  rector  ejaculated,  looking  re- 
proachfully upon  his  curate  with  his  prominent  slate- 
colored  eyes.  u  Do  you  suppose  that  the  girl  has 
been  coerced  by  me  ?  That  I  have  beaten  her,  or 
threatened  her?  But  this  is  the  thanks  one  gets 
for  doing  one's  best  and  meaning  well  all  round. 
It  is  a  little  hard,  I  think — a  little  hard!  " 

He  shuffled  together  some  loose  papers  lying  on  the 


62  THE  CEDAR  STAR. 

writing-table  and  took  them  in  his  hand,  preparatory 
to  beating  the  retreat  of  dignified  injury.  He  always 
had  loose  sheets  of  paper  near  at  hand  ;  he  never  at- 
tended to  them,  Bill  did  that,  but  he  had  a  habit  of 
collecting  them  loosely,  and  moving  them  from  one 
place  to  another.  It  made  him  think  that  he  was 
busy. 

"  Please  don't  go,  Uncle  Eustace,"  Violet  said,  less 
timidly  than  usual.  The  firm  grasp  of  Bill's  hand 
had  strength  in  it.  "  If  you  don't  mind  I  should  like 
to  go  to  my  mother  for  a  time.  If  you  can  spare  me 
— and  if  Mr.  Carlyon  will  wait.  I  will  come  back 
again — perhaps  in  a  few  weeks — but  I  should  like  to 
be  with  my  mother  first.  I  can  make  up  my  mind 
better  with  her." 

The  rector  subsided  into  a  chair.  He  gave  a  sigh 
and  looked  tragically  round  the  room  as  though  to 
call  on  all  his  household  gods  to  witness  that  here  was 
the  very  climax  of  all  the  disagreeables  of  his  life. 

"  Of  course,  you  know  it  is  just  now  impossible — 
quite  impossible,"  he  began  in  his  tone  of  half-re- 
strained irritability ;  but  Carlyon  quickly  came  to 
Violet's  assistance. 

"  Of  course  she  must  go,"  he  said,  "  of  course.  The 
children  ?  Oh,  I  will  take  care  of  the  children — Caro- 
line will  take  care  of  them.  You  shall  go  at  once. 
And  remember,"  he  went  on,  still  maintaining  that 
firm  clasp  of  her  hand  which  had  helped  her  through 
the  trying  scene,  u  remember  you  are  to  think  of  3^our- 
self  before  me — before  anybody.  You  are  to  think 
of  your  own  happiness  and  to  be  afraid  of  nothing." 

"  I  will  remember,"  she  promised  him.  She  smiled 
tremulously  upon  him,  feeling  suddenly  quite  brave 
and  happy.  She  had  never  seen  him  before  like  this, 


UNCLE  EUSTACE  INTERVENES.  63 

all  his  fear  of  her,  his  shyness,  his  boyishness  gone. 
Surely,  after  a  little  time,  when  she  and  her  mother 
had  talked  things  over,  it  would  be  all  right,  it  would 
not  seem  so  impossible. 

"  You  would  like  to  go  to-morrow  ?  "  he  asked  her, 
and  she  assented,  while  the  rector  groaned  aloud, 
grinding  himself  lower  and  lower  in  his  chair,  much 
after  Betty's  fashion  when  things  went  amiss. 

"  Then,  good-bye,"  the  curate  said,  gripping  the 
hands  in  his  and  looking  steadily  into  Violet's  face. 
"  If  you  can  write  me  a  line — do.  If  not,  do  not 
trouble.  I  can  wait." 


64  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

GIRLS   WANT   A   MOTHER. 

IT  was  all  very  well  for  William  Carlyon  to  have 
taken  matters  so  largely  into  his  hands  and  to  have 
sent  away  the  rector's  niece  from  her  post  as  care- 
taker of  the  rector's  children,  but  Mr.  Jervois  knew 
that  the  responsibilities  and  the  annoyances  arising 
therefrom,  would  fall  very  heavily  upon  himself. 

The  day  that  Yiolet  left  Blow  Weston  happened  to 
be  wet,  so  wet  that  it  was  decided  in  the  kitchen  the 
young  ladies  could  not  possibly  go  out  of  doors  to 
play.  The  young  ladies  themselves  were  of  a  different 
opinion.  "  Laissez  moi  jouer  dans  cette  belle  feoue," 
Ian  would  have  cried  with  the  little  Napoleon  if  the 
French  language  had  not  been  a  sealed  book  to  her. 
Even  Emily,  a  bronchitic  little  subject,  who  caught 
cold  on  the  smallest  provocation,  thought  to  paddle 
in  puddles  a  charming  pastime,  and  exulted  in  hearing 
the  water  squashing  out  of  her  boots  as  she  walked. 

Once,  in  an  unusually  complacent  mood,  but  in  an 
evil  moment  as  the  sequel  shows,  Harringay  had 
roughly  modelled  for  the  eldest  girl  a  head  of  Chip, 
the  terrier,  in  clay,  since  which  occasion  Betty  had 
been  seized  with  an  enthusiasm  for  the  plastic  art.  In 
spite  of  frantic  remonstrance  from  Susan,  the  maid, 
she  now  started  off,  followed  by  her  two  faithful  ad- 
herents, to  secure  a  supply  of  the  raw  material,  which 
she  judged  the  rain  would  have  reduced  to  fit  condi- 
tion for  handling. 


GIRLS   WANT  A   MOTHER.  65 

On  the  return  of  the  mud-laden  trio,  the  uuhappy 
father,  compelled  to  the  exertion  by  an  outraged 
Susan,  was  reluctantly  induced  to  inspect  their  con- 
dition. He  was  shocked  at  the  spectacle  revealed  to 
him  ;  and  having  pitied  himself,  and  called  reproaches 
upon  his  daughter,  he  gave  the  order  that  they  should 
at  once  be  put  to  bed. 

It  was  his  punishment  for  all  offences,  little  and  big, 
and  in  the  present  instance  was  a  salutary  measure  to 
adopt ;  if  only  the  delinquents,  their  sodden  clothes, 
having  been  removed  by  a  relentless  maid,  and  them- 
selves tucked  warm  and  safe  between  the  sheets,  had 
stayed  there. 

This  they  did  only  till  the  coast  was  clear.  Then 
Betty  arose,  and  scudding,  barefooted,  to  the  school- 
room, where  it  was  deposited,  re-possessed  herself  of  a 
supply  of  clay.  The  children  spent  an  hour  happily 
in  the  moulding  of  various  objects,  Betty  setting  about 
the  task  with  a  natural  cleverness  after  which  the 
unsuccessful  Emily  labored  in  vain.  Ian,  less  ambi- 
tious, contented  herself  with  the  fashioning  of  shape- 
less articles,  bearing  no  resemblance  to  anj'thing  in- 
animate or  inanimate  nature,  but  affording  their  cre- 
ator satisfaction  as  a  means  for  getting  as  much  dirt 
on  to  her  small  person  as  the  limited  area  would 
allow. 

They  proposed  to  themselves  to  harden  their  artistic 
products  by  exposing  them  to  a  toasting  on  the  bars 
of  the  grate.  But  the  fire  refused  to  do  more  than 
smoulder,  and  the  process  was  too  slow  for  lan's  quick 
spirit.  Before  the  others  knew  what  she  was  about, 
she  had  sprung  on  a  chair,  reached  down  the  paraffin 
lamp  which  stood  on  a  bracket  out  of  the  children's 
reach,  and  flung  its  contents  in  the  fire.  She  had  seen 
5 


68  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

Susan  do  likewise  one  morning  when  the  kindling  was 
damp  and  would  not  burn. 

Then  a  scream  ran  through  the  house,  startling 
poor  Mr.  Jervois  in  the  library,  turning  his  blood  to 
ice  in  his  veins.  He  knew  instantly  that  he  would 
not  recover  from  the  shock  for  days,  but  his  parent's 
instinct  helped  him  into  action.  He  had  reached  the 
schoolroom  before  the  servants,  falling  back  upon  each 
other  with  gaspings  for  breath,  and  hands  upon  their 
hearts,  had  started  on  the  way. 

The  screams  continued  for  minutes  to  ring  through 
the  house ;  but  after  all,  not  much  harm  was  done. 
The  iron  guard  had  saved  the  children  from  destruc- 
tion. Only  the  skirt  of  lan's  little  shirt  had  ignited, 
and  when  her  father  reached  the  room  that  garment 
was  still  flaming  upon  the  boards,  while  Ian,  standing 
mother-naked,  watched  the  consumption  of  her  only 
garment  with  heart-shuddering  yells.  Each  little  leg 
was  scorched,  and  Betty's  hands  which  had  torn  off 
the  flaming  garment  were  badly  burnt. 

The  children  were  put  to  bed  in  serious  earnest 
then,  Emily,  quite  unhurt,  cowering  between  the 
sheets  for  sympathy.  The  doctor  was  sent  for.  The 
rector  standing  sentinel  in  his  little  girl's  room  be- 
cause there  was  no  one  about  him  in  whom  any  con- 
fidence could  be  placed,  and  because  he  did  not  con- 
sider it  safe  to  leave  his  children  for  an  instant,  felt  a 
sort  of  complacency  in  the  contemplation  of  his,  accu- 
mulated troubles.  Surely  there  was  not  in  the  county 
another  man  so  sorely  tired  ! 

The  curate  and  Caroline  his  sister,  hurrying  across 
found  the  poor  man  standing  by  lan's  pillow,  looking 
down  helpless  with  gaping  mouth  and  protruding  eyes 
upon  the  fevered,  frightened,  excited  face. 


QISLS   WANT  A  MOTHER.  67 

"  My  legs  are  burnt  off,"  she  screamed  to  Caroline, 
with  looks  of  terror  and  anguish.  "  They're  burnt  off. 
Make  haste,  make  haste,  make  haste  to  help  me, 
they're  burnt  off,  I  say  I  " 

How  happy  the  rector  was  to  relinquish  his  post 
and  to  escape  downstairs. 

"  I  shan't  ever  be  able  to  make  those  drawings  for 
Punch  now,"  Betty  said,  later,  when  the  doctor  had 
been,  and  had  dressed  her  painfully  wounded  hands, 
and  reassured  Ian  as  to  her  probable  retention  of  her 

fat  legs. 

Later  still  when  the  curate  came  upstairs  to  say 
good-night  her  mind  seemed  to  be  running  on  the  same 

theme  : 

« I   should  think  if  Mr.  Harringay  knew,  he  d 
sorry,"  she  said.     u  Because  he  thought  my  drawings 
clever  and  I  never  shall  be  able  to  do  them  for  Punch 


now. 


The  rector  was  profuse  in  his  thanks  to  Miss  Carl- 
yon  for  her  timely  aid. 

"  You  see  how  helpless  I  am,"  he  said.  "  At  the 
mercy  of  servants— worthless  servants— and  my 
motherless  little  girls  exposed  to  hourly  dangers. 
Other  men  have  the  misfortune  to  lose  their  wives,  I 
know,  and  life  seems  to  go  on  with  them  much  as 
usual.  Surely  no  other  has  ever  had  such  worries 
and  anxieties  as  mine  to  bear  !  You  won't  leave  me, 
Miss  Carlyon  ?  Not  for  to-night,  at  least  ? ' 

"  Certainly  not,  if  you  wish  it.  Bill  and  I  will  both 
stay,"  Caroline  assented  cheerfully.  The  unruffled 
propriety  of  her  bearing  was  so  agreeable  after  an  ex- 
perience of  the  hysterical  helplessness  of  the  servants. 
But  the  rector  did  not  understand  why  the  brother 


68  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

also  should  be  compelled  to  take  up  residence,  and  he 
said  as  much  present!}7  to  the  young  man. 

"  Oh,  I'll  stop,"  Bill  said,  indifferently.  "  It's  all 
right.  I've  got  my  orders  to  stay." 

Mr.  Jervois  did  not  wish  to  seem  inhospitable,  but 
he  wondered  why. 

The  guest-chamber  had  been  prepared  for  Miss 
Carlyon,  but  the  servants  did  not  receive  at  all  cheer- 
fully the  order  to  get  ready  another  spare  room  which 
had  not  been  slept  in  for  months.  And  the  rector 
who  heartily  disliked  his  servants,  was  entirely  afraid 
of  them. 

"  There  seems  to  be  an  idea  that  the  north  room  is 
damp,"  he  said  to  Miss  Carlyon  when  next  she  ap- 
peared. "  I  really  think  Bill  would  find  it  pleasanter 
to  sleep  at  home  to-night  and  I'm  sure  we  should  be 
all  right  without  him."  Whereupon  Miss  Carlyon 
had  at  once  made  it  clear  beyond  the  possibility  of 
mistake  that  Bill  was  not  to  desert  her. 

"  Extraordinary  freak !  I  wonder  why,"  said  Mr. 
Jervois  to  himself  again. 

And  then,  he  never  remembered  how,  or  by  what 
process  Caroline's  reason  for  insisting  on  the  curate's 
presence  and  chaperonage  was  at  once  made  clear  to 
him.  The  enlightenment  brought  the  poor  man  noth- 
ing but  a  load  of  painful  embarrassment.  He  sank 
lower  and  lower  in  his  chair,  his  jaw  dropped  on  his 
chest,  his  always  prominent  eyes  almost  fell  from  his 
head  in  dismay.  With  a  nervous  hand  he  raked  at 
the  faint  side-whiskers  which  adorned  his  cheeks,  and 
made  repeated,  always  futfle  efforts  to  get  their  ends 
into  his  mouth. 

If  that  was  the  idea  she  had  in  her  head  it  was  ex- 
tremely uncomfortable,  and  supremely  ridiculous.  At 


GIRLS   WANT  A   MOTHER.  69 

their  ages,  and  with  his  history  1  A  boy  like  Bill, 
too !  Bill  was  probably  enjoying  the  joke  ;  and  the 
servants  were  sure  to  see  through  the  situation,  and 
to  be  coarsely  facetious  among  themselves.  The 
Carlyons  had  been  a  comfort  to  him ;  he  had  told 
Caroline  of  his  troubles  and  had  been  at  ease  with  her. 
Never,  never  should  he  know  an  easy  moment  in  her 
society  again — Never? 

He  slipped  farther  in  his  chair,  his  long  legs 
sprawled  out  across  the  hearthrug.  He  would  have 
liked  to  have  hidden  under  it  if  so  he  might  have  es- 
caped from  his  embarrassing  thoughts. 

This  was  the  last  and  most  serious  disagreeable  to 
which  the  death  of  his  wife  had  exposed  him — that 
there  was  in  people's  minds  an  expectation  that  he 
would  marry  again.  He  recalled  the  governesses,  and 
how  they  had  rendered  him  ridiculous  by  their  unwel- 
come attentions.  Caroline  had  censured  the  gov- 
ernesses, he  remembered.  They  had  wanted  to  marry 
him  :  was  it  possible  that  Caroline  was  under  the  im- 
pression he  desired  to  marry  her. 

The  idea  so  terrified  him,  filled  his  being  with 
such  revolt  that  he  wondered  how  he  should  bring 
himself  to  support  the  presence  of  the  woman  in  his 
house. 

During  the  first  days  of  the  Carlyons'  stay,  the 
rector  was  painfully  conscious  of  the  subject  he  now 
imagined  to  be  in  all  minds  :  his  nervousness  and  dis- 
comfort in  Caroline's  presence  were  patent  to  all,  and 
he  was  driven  to  quite  desperate  measures,  to  escape 
from  her  society. 

In  those  days  he  rose  fifty  per  cent,  in  the  good 
graces  of  his  parishioners  in  whose  houses  he  took 
refuge,  visiting  from  door  to  door,  sitting  down  to 


70  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

talk,  embarrassed  and  ill  at  ease,  it  is  true,  with  peo- 
ple he  had  not  called  on  since  his  wife's  death. 

"The  rector  is  beginning  to  wake  up  again,"  the 
people  said.  "And  time  he  did!  A  wife's  a  wife, 
but  she  ain't  evei*ything — even  when  she's  dead !  " 

One  old,  bed-ridden  woman  to  whom  the  poor  wife 
had  been  very  kind,  had  forgotten  apparently  that 
such  a  person  had  existed.  She  inquired  aggrievedly 
for  the  curate  when  the  rector  appeared.  "  Wheer's 
the  young  chap  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Tell  th'  young  chap 
I  want  some  more  of  his  sister's  soup.  She's  a  beeti- 
ful  soup-maker  the  woman  is,  and  that  I  don't  mind 
sayin'  for  her." 

Mrs.  Butcher,  a  wife  of  one  of  the  farmers,  a  kind- 
hearted  woman  of  whom  Betty  approved,  asked  him 
anxiously  about  his  little  girls. 

"  I  have  left  Miss  Carlyon  with  them,"  the  rector 
said,  looking  away  self-consciously  from  the  friendly 
face  as  he  replied. 

"  I  am  so  relieved  to  hear  it.  I  was  saying  to  my 
husband  last  night  '  dear  Mrs.  Jervois  would  feel 
happy  about  her  poor  children  if  she  knew  they  were 
in  Miss  Carlyon's  care.'  " 

There  were  tears  in  her  eyes  as  she  looked  at  the 
uneasy  rector  but  there  was  also  meaning  in  her 
glance.  He  felt  that  he  hated  the  woman  for  that  ex- 
pression as  he  hurried  away. 

Sitting  by  the  roadside  in  his  old  patched  jacket, 
his  crutches  beside  him,  his  shrivelled,  twisted  leg  laid 
alongside  its  able  fellow  in  the  long  grass,  was  Am- 
brose Xudd  the  cripple.  He  leered  at  the  clergyman, 
contorting  his  hideous  face  into  a  knowing  smile  as 
Mr.  Jervois  placed  the  expected  shilling  in  his  willing 
thorny  palm. 


GIRLS   WANT  A   MOTHER.  71 

"  I  han't  seen  too  many  o'  your  skillin's  of  late,"  he 
said,  conscientiously  abstaining  from  any  show  of 
gratitude  "  but  if,  as  I  heared  tell,  a  new  missus  is  a- 
coming  to  th'  rect'ry  there's,  mayhap,  better  times  in 
store  for  all  of  us." 

There  was  no  refuge.  The  thing  was  in  the  air. 
The  poor  rector  took  himself  homeward,  as  a  poor 
rabbit  turning  desperately  from  the  yelping  dogs  to 
the  hole  where  the  ferret  works.  Comfort  was  in 
Bill's  unconsciousness,  in  his  easy  mention  of  his 
sister's  name,  in  the  serene  gaze  of  Caroline  herself. 
He  thought  he  could  not  go  beyond  his  garden  gate 
again  while  the  children  were  in  Miss  Carlyon's  care. 

Presently  he  perceived  that  if  he  could  have  for- 
gotten the  horrible  idea  which  had  been  in  Caroline's 
mind,  things  were  more  than  endurable  under  the 
rectory  roof — they  were  distinctly  pleasant.  Bill  was 
always  welcome  there.  He  was  one  of  those  visitors 
of  whom  their  entertainers  say  in  praise,  "  You  never 
know  whether  they  are  there  or  not."  He  accommo- 
dated himself  easily,  had  his  own  amusements,  his 
own  occupation.  The  rector  liked  to  have  his  pres- 
ence in  the  room  with  him,  even  though  for  an  hour  at 
a  time,  perhaps,  no  word  was  spoken  between  the  two 
men.  And  in  the  presence  of  a  lady  there  was  enjoy- 
ment— there  was  no  gainsaying. 

Poor  Yiolet  was,  after  all,  such  a  child  !  "  Like  a 
little  wax  madonna  she  was  holy  in  the  place  ;  "  but 
the  servants  took  no  orders  from  her,  the  children 
were  intractable  under  her  rdgiine.  With  Caroline 
everything  moved  like  clockwork.  The  meals  were 
regular  and  better  cooked.  There  was  no  clashing  of 
unanswered  bells,  because  the  parlor-maid  had  just 
slipped  out  to  her  sweetheart  in  the  sables ;  no  burst 


72  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

of  untimety  vulgar  laughter  grated  on  the  rector's 
shrinking  ear  each  time  the  kitchen-door  stood  ajar. 

The  evenings  were  passed  in  the  schoolroom  be- 
cause a  piano  was  there,  and  both  men  liked  the  sooth- 
ing influence  of  music  in  the  idle  hour,  after  dinner. 
And  Miss  Carlyon  and  the  rector  had  long  discovered 
a  mutual  passion  for  chess.  Both  were  extremely  in- 
different players,  and  Bill,  who  was  a  good  one,  de- 
clined to  play  with  either,  but  as  they  could  not  criti- 
cise each  other's  blunders,  they  were  happj'  in  their 
ignorance  and  scorned  the  expert. 

With  the  children,  subdued  and  wounded,  Caroline 
showed  herself  such  a  patient  and  attentive  nurse 
that  even  Betty  who  hated  the  curate's  sister,  and 
wished  to  hate  her,  was  silenced.  There  were  days 
when,  helpless  with  her  bandaged  hands,  Betty  had 
said  in  the  morning  that  evening  never  could  come — 
days  which  had  been  made  bearable,  even  enjoyable, 
by  Caroline's  untiring  fidelity.  She  read  them  David 
Copper  field  at  this  time  ;  and  if  there  is  in  the  world 
a  book  to  make  boys  and  girls  forget  their  weariness 
and  restlessness  and  irritable  pain,  it  is  surely  David 
Copper  field — heard  for  the  twentieth  time.  But  for 
the  first— ! 

Years  afterwards  when  an  ocean  of  wrath,  bitter- 
ness and  uncharitableness  rolled  between  the  two 
women,  whose  characters,  besides,  had  placed  them  as 
the  poles  asunder,  Betty,  unsparing  and  vituperative, 
would  pause  in  the  midst  of  her  recrimination  and  re- 
mind herself,  "  She  read  me  David  Copperfield  when 
I  was  ill." 

By  the  time  that  Caroline  announced  there  was  no 
longer  any  need  for  her  presence  at  the  rectory,  Ian 
the  impulsive,  given  over  to  likes  and  dislikes  of  the 


GIRLS   WANT  A   MOTHER.  73 

moment,  wept  on  the  lady's  neck,  and  besought  her 
with  a  warm,  wet  cheek  pressed  convulsively  upon 
Miss  Carlyon's  own,  never  to  leave  them,  ever,  ever 
again. 

"  You  are  just  as  dear  as  my  mamma.  I  shall  call 
you  my  mamma,"  Ian  said. 

At  which  speech  Emily  opened  mildly  disapproving 
eyes  :  "  If  Betty  had  heard  that,  she  would  have 
beaten  you,"  she  told  her  small  sister  afterwards. 

"  Then,  don't  tell  her,"  said  the  practical  Ian.  "  I 
do  wish  she  was  my  mamma  all  the  same.  She's  got 
such  a  dear  little  gold  whistle  on  her  watch  chain.  I 
don't  care  if  her  nose  is  long.  She  knows  how  to 
make  beautiful  carts  out  of  cardboard  for  my  little 
fur  ponies." 

But  Ian  was  well  and  able  to  play  now,  it  was  upon 
her  father  that  the  strange  desolation  occasioned  by 
the  loss  of  the  Carlyons  fell.  Bill,  to  get  over  that 
weary  time,  he  must  wait  for  Violet's  answer,  decided 
that  he  would  take  his  holiday  now,  and  swept  away 
Caroline  with  him  to  their  old  home  in  Hampshire,  so 
that  there  was  no  alleviation  of  the  loneliness  into 
which  the  poor  rector  found  himself  suddenly  plunged. 

He  did  not  remember  to  have  been  so  glad  of  any- 
thing for  years  as  when  that  long  three  weeks  of  the 
curate's  leave  came  to  an  end.  He  invited  the  young 
man  and  his  sister  to  return  to  lunch  with  him  after 
service  on  the  first  Sunday  of  their  reappearance,  but 
Caroline  said  she  was  tired  of  her  journey  and  de- 
clined. 

On  the  Monday  afternoon  when  Mr.  Jervois  called 
at  Queen  Anne's,  he  found  Carlyon  out  on  his  parish 
rounds,  and  Caroline  alone.  He  had  far  rather,  even 
at  that  juncture,  have  found  Caroline  out  and  Carlyon 


74  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

alone,  but  it  was  a  relief  to  talk  to  one  of  them.  In- 
deed he  had  had  of  late  occasion  to  pity  himself  to 
such  a  degree  that  he  felt  if  he  had  no  one  to  confide 
in  speedily,  his  keen  and  unshared  appreciation  of  his 
own  troubles  would  end  in  disaster  to  himself.  There 
was  no  real  good  in  complaint,  of  course,  and  trouble 
had  to  be  borne,  but  when  one's  nature  craved  for 
sympathy,  and  when  one  was  absolutely  bursting  with 
trouble — ! 

"  The  cook  forgot  the  caper  sauce  with  the  boiled 
mutton,  to-day,"  he  began  as  soon  as  greetings  were 
over,  and  he  had  sunk  in  a  chair,  his  plaintive  face 
was  turned  to  Caroline,  blank-eyed,  he  raked  at  the 
pale  side  whiskers  with  his  restless  fingers. 

"  I  mentioned  before  Rhoda — the  parlor-maid,  you 
know — something  of  my  annoyance  ;  she  was  incon- 
siderate enough  to  repeat  my  few  words  in  the 
kitchen,  and  cook  came  into  the  room  before  lunch 
was  over  to  say  she  would  leave  me  at  once  if  I  was 
not  entirely  satisfied.  What  did  she  suppose  would 
become  of  us — four  hungry,  helpless  people  in  the 
house — and  no  cook  ? 

"  Susan  has  got  another  young  man — that  danger- 
ous rascal,  Tom  Shore.  Ian  is  my  informant.  My 
children  are  posted  in  all  the  vulgar  love  affairs  of  the 
kitchen,  Miss  Carlyon.  Can  my  poor  little  girls  grow 
up  to  be  delicate-minded  ladies  with  such  associations  ? 
I  heard  Betty  using  a  word  to-day,  quite  innocently, 
I  am  sure,  which  I  could  not  repeat  to  you. 

"  They  had  Tom  Shore  to  spend  the  evening  in  the 
kitchen  last  night  and  Ian  went  down  in  her  night- 
dress and  sat  on  his  lap. 

"  Betty  took  the  children  to  the  sand-pit  this  morn- 
ing ;  they  have  had  no  dinner.  They  wanted  red  sand 


GIRLS   WANT  A  MOTHER.  75 

for  their  bird-cages.  Gardener  lent  them  the  boy  to 
wheel  the  barrow.  I  met  them  just  now,  coming  back. 
The  boy  was  riding  on  the  sand,  his  legs  dangling, 
Betty  was  crowding  the  barrow." 

"  Betty  is  old  enough  to  know  better,"  said  Miss 
Carlyon  with  severity. 

"  Betty  has  no  mother,"  the  rector  said. 

He  had  prepared  the  speech  which  was  to  follow, 
but  unexpected  feeling  broke  him  down.  He  had  so 
loved  the  mother  of  his  children  1  The  phrase  which 
expressed  her  loss  seemed  ever  as  if  it  must  choke 
him.  But  at  such  an  inconvenient  time  !  He  cleared 
his  throat  and  went  on  huskity,  with  dropped  eyes 
and  a  miserable  face. 

"  Girls  want  a  mother,  Miss  Carlyon.  Will  you 
take  pity  on  me,  and  be  a  mother  to  my  children  ?  " 
he  said. 


76  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

BETTY'S  DARK  HOUR. 

SUSAN,  when  she  dressed  her  young  ladies  in  the 
morning,  informed  them  that  it  was  not  for  very  long 
she  should  perform  that  office.  She  would  not  stop 
to  be  lorded  over  by  no  Miss  Carlyon,  even  if  that 
lady  was  to  be,  ten  times  over,  Miss  Betty's  new 
mamma. 

She  was  on  her  knees  before  Miss  Betty  as  she 
made  that  statement,  in  a  convenient  position  for  the 
box  of  the  ears  which  her  young  mistress  promptly 
administered  with  telling  effect. 

During  the  free  fight  which  ensued  between  the 
lady  and  the  maid,  Ian  slipped  half-dressed  from  the 
room  and  ran  downstairs.  She  burst  in  upon  her 
father,  opening  his  letters  at  the  breakfast  table  : 
"  Father  1  father !  Is  it  true  ?  "  she  cried.  "  Oh,  I 
do  hope  it's  true,  and  Miss  Carlyon  is  going  to  be  my 
mamma,  because  then  old  beast  Susan  is  going.  Is 
it  true  ?  Say  it's  true." 

The  rector,  with  an  air  of  utter  despondency,  drew 
his  youngest  daughter  upon  his  knee.  "  Yes,  my 
dear  child.  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  thought  it  was  best  for 
all  of  us.  We  seem  to  get  into  such  muddles.  I 
think  she  will  be  kind  to  us,  Ian — don't  you  think  she 
will  be  kind  ?  " 

He  had  made  the  sacrifice  for  his  children's  sake. 
He  was  already  horribly  doubtful  of  the  wisdom  of 


BETTY'S  DARK  HOUR.  77 

the  act.  He  longed  for  the  backing-up  of  even  such 
a  baby  as  Ian. 

Ian  was  radiant.  She  swung  her  black  stockinged 
legs  ecstatically  backward  and  forward,  and  gave 
little  jumps  of  delight  as  she  sat  on  her  father's  knee. 

"  Shall  Betty  and  Emily  and  me  be  dressed  in  pink 
and  blue  like  those  little  girls  when  Nora  Butcher 
was  married  ?  "  she  inquired  with  prospective  rapture, 
"  Shall  we  have  lockets  hanging  round ?  " 

But  at  this  point  Betty  appeared  at  the  door,  her 
face  pale  on  one  cheek,  and  on  the  other,  quite  plainly 
to  be  seen,  the  red  marks  of  her  gentle  nurse's  fingers, 
her  unruly  hair,  disheveled  in  the  late  struggle, 
standing  out  wildly  from  her  head. 

"  It  is  true !  "  Ian  cried  to  her.  "  Father  is  going 
to  marry  her.  It  is  true,  Betty." 

For  a  moment  the  walls  reeled  round  the  child,  the 
earth  heaved,  that  last  blow  on  the  side  of  her  head 
had  been  a  stunning  one.  If  she  had  understood  her 
feeling  then,  Betty  would  probably  have  fainted;  but 
being  the  unsophisticated  little  savage  she  was,  she 
struggled  against  the  sickening  sensation  of  the  in- 
stabilhy  of  the  material  world,  and  wavering  a  little 
in  her  course,  stumbled  across  the  room  to  her  father. 
Her  eyes  were  misty  with  pain,  but  in  them  was  help- 
less anger,  terror,  jealousy,  almost  despair. 

"  You  shall  not,"  she  said,  clutching  her  father,  "  I 
won't  have  her  brought  here  to  live.  You  wicked, 
wicked  old  man — how  dare  you  !  you  shall  not !  " 

"  Go  out  of  the  room,"  said  the  miserable  rector. 
"  Go  at  once  before  I  have  to  send  you  to  bed." 

When  she  only  sobbed  out  her  wild  incoherent  rage 
he  took  her  by  the  shoulders  to  turn  her  from  the 
room,  but  she  flung  herself  to  the  ground  and  clung 


78  T3E  CEDAR  STAR. 

about  his  feet :  "  Don't  father — don't  bring  her  here, 
I  will  be  good,  father.  I  will  take  care  of  Ian  and 
Emily.  I  will  do  that  you  wish — always,  always,  if 
you  won't  bring  her  here  instead  of  my  mamma  !  " 

He  had  in  the  end  to  carry  her  from  the  room.  It 
was  no  easy  matter,  she  struggled  and  shrieked,  and 
kicked  in  his  arms,  catching  at  this  object  and  that, 
seeming  to  think  if  once  expelled  her  cause  was  lost. 
She  was  deposited  at  length  on  the  mat  before  the 
door,  and  the  rector  locked  himself  into  the  room  with 
a  trembling  hand.  He  had  done  it  for  the  best,  God 
knows !  To  obtain  a  decently  regulated  household, 
to  secure  a  fit  protection  for  his  children.  He  had 
flattered  himself  that  his  troubles  and  disagreeables, 
arising  from  the  refractoriness  of  his  eldest  daughter 
were  nearly  at  an  end.  Good  heavens  1  were  they 
only  just  about  to  begin  ? 

At  the  hour  of  earl}'  dinner  Betty  was  not  to  be 
found.  She  had  said  her  head  ached,  Emily  explained, 
and  she  and  Ian  had  played  alone. 

"  Betty  must  be  found,"  her  father  said,  drumming 
with  thin,  nervous  fingers  on  the  table  and  vaguely 
addressing  no  one  in  particular ;  but  it  was  a  relief  to 
him  to  be  quit  for  a  time  of  that  turbulent  presence. 
He  was  rendered  miserable  for  the  whole  day  by  his 
recollection  of  the  morning's  scene,  and  when,  late  in 
the  afternoon,  he  put  on  his  hat  to  go  out,  he  remem- 
bered to  ask  of  the  servant  opening  the  door  if  the 
child  had  turned  up. 

As  far  as  Rhoda  knew  she  had  not. 

"  Was  she  in  the  house  ? " 

Rhoda  was  not  in  a  position  to  say. 

The  rector  fidgetted  for  a  moment  on  the  door-mat, 
then  turned  and  opened  the  drawing-room  door. 


BETTY'S  DARK  HOUR.  •$ 

The  drawing-room  offered  positively  no  field  for 
mischief  or  amusement  to  the  youthful  mind ;  it  was 
the  most  unlikely  place  in  the  world  for  Betty  to  hide 
in.  It  must  have  been  his  unerring  instinct  to  do  the 
useless  thing  which  led  the  poor  rector  in  that  direc- 
tion. He  looked  blankly  about  the  place  into  which 
he  had  hardly  set  foot  since  his  wife's  death. 

It  had  been  a  pleasant,  sunshiny  room,  not  too 
bright  nor  fine  for  the  daily  use  of  a  household.  Now 
the  blinds  were  drawn,  and  there  was  a  smell  of  dust 
and  airlessness,  and  an  order  that  was  strange  to  his 
memory  of  his  wife's  favorite  room.  A  deep  wicker 
chair  which  had  been  her  usual  seat,  was  the  only 
piece  of  furniture  which  was  not  ranged  with  uncom- 
fortable precision  against  the  walls.  This  was  pulled 
in  front  of  the  empty  grate. 

He  looked  at  the  back  of  the  easy-chair  for  a 
minute,  and  took  his  hat  from  his  head.  He  could 
almost  believe  the  figure  of  his  wife  might  be  lying 
there  still,  he  looked  for  the  knot  of  bright  brown  hair 
appearing  over  the  top.  Slowly,  his  heart  full  of 
tender  misery,  he  came  into  the  room,  and  laid  a  hand 
upon  the  unconscious  child's  back. 

And  there,  after  all,  was  Betty. 

Betty  the  truant,  the  tyrant,  the  termagant !  She 
was  crouched  upon  the  rug  before  the  cheerless  grate 
and  her  head  lay  on  the  cushioned  seat  of  the  chair  as 
it  had  been  used  to  lie  on  her  mother's  knee.  With 
some  dim  idea  of  finding  there  a  reminiscence  of  the 
old  comfort  and  protection  she  had  brought  the  chair 
into  its  familiar  position  and  had  flung  herself  be- 
fore it. 

Once,  when  one  of  the  temporarily  insurmountable 
griefs  of  her  life  had  overtaken  her,  when  the  sandy 


80  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

cat  with  which  she  had  played  from  her  cradle,  had 
died,  or  her  tame  jackdaw  had  been  killed,  she  remem- 
bered to  have  sobbed  and  wept  till  all  the  trouble  left 
her,  against  the  form  that  lay  in  the  chair.  She  had 
sobbed  in  that  position  now,  till  the  old  grief  and  the 
new  became  curiously  blended,  and  she  hardly  knew 
if  she  cried  for  the  dead  pet  or  the  advent  of  the  new 
mother.  She  remembered  how  the  large,  firm  mother's 
hand  had  lain  on  her  head,  and  softty  smoothed  and 
smoothed  the  tangled  hair,  and  so  remembering,  had 
wept  herself  to  sleep. 

Those  dull,  prominent  eyes  of  the  rector  were 
washed  in  a  rush  of  sudden  tears.  He  stooped  lower, 
lower  still,  and  with  a  very  timid,  awkward  hand, 
stroked,  and  ever  more  softly  stroked,  the  tangle  of 
rough  hair. 

A  flicker  of  light  stirred  upon  the  sleeping,  tear- 
stained  face,  the  mouth  just  moved  with  a  half  per- 
ceptible smile.  The  father  rather  felt  aud  saw  than 
heard  the  name  that  trembled  on  the  child's  lips.  But 
if  she  had  called  it  aloud  in  anguish  it  could  not  more 
certainly  have  aroused  the  folded  memories  of  the 
poor  man's  brain,  or  more  cruelly  awakened  the  half- 
hid  thoughts  and  longings  of  his  heart. 

He  straightened  himself  abruptly  and  went  hur- 
riedly from  the  room  lest  the  sob  that  tore  at  his 
throat  should  burst  from  him  and  awake  the  dreaming 
child. 

He  had  been  bound  for  Queen  Anne's.  He  went 
back  to  his  own  room  instead,  and  bolted  himself  in 
there  and  pulled  down  the  blinds.  There  was  a  cer- 
tain locked  drawer  in  his  writing-table  which  since 
his  wife's  death  he  had  lacked  the  courage  to  open. 
He  opened  it  now  and  with  eager  shaking  hands,  took 


BETTY'S  DARK  HOUR.  81 

out  its  hidden  treasures.  Little  mementoes  of  her 
presence,  which  had  escaped  the  hands  carefully  laying 
away  for  the  daughters'  future  was  the  dead  mother's 
belongings.  Odds  and  ends  he  had  found  in  wander- 
ing bewilderedly  through  rooms  so  strangely  empty 
of  her  presence,  and  had  pushed  hurriedly  and  helter 
skelter  into  the  drawer  to  save  his  eyes  the  pain  of 
falling  on  them. 

"  The  day  will  come  when  I  shall  be  strong  enough 
to  look  at  them,"  he  had  said.  But  he  had  not  yet 
been  strong  enough  to  dare  to  disturb  the  covering 
which  the  necessities  and  conventionalities  of  daily 
existence  had  thrown  over  his  unabated  grief.  He 
tore  it  aside  ruthlessly  now. 

A  few  flowers  which  had  withered  in  a  vase  where 
he  had  seen  her  fingers  place  them,  a  blotting  pad 
which  had  lain  on  her  writing-table,  a  half  written 
letter  in  its  leaves;  an  unfinished  sock  of  lan's,  the 
wool  tangled  about  the  needles — he  had  found  it 
pushed  into  the  drawer  where  his  papers  were  kept, 
and  remembered  having  swept  it  there,  impatient 
of  its  littering  his  table,  on  the  last  morning  she  had 
sat  with  him  in  the  library — a  book  she  had  read 
aloud  to  him  with  a  down-turned  leaf — a  dozen  pa- 
thetic, senseless  trifles,  talking  loudly  to  his  heart  with 
poor  dumb  mouths  of  her. 

He  had  not  been  a  clever  man,  nor  a  strong  nor 
helpful,  nor  useful  one  at  the  best  of  times,  and  what 
of  capability  he  had  possessed — that  best  part  of  him 
to  which  his  clinging  love  for  her  and  her  protective 
love  for  him  had  given  birth — had  died  with  her 
and  been  buried  in  her  coffin.  Yet  this  much  he 
had  of  greatness  in  him  that  he  had  known  how  to 
love  and  worship  one  woman  truly,  and  this  much  of 
6 


82  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

nobility  remained  that,  whatever  sacrifices  paternal 
affection  and  nearer  ties  demanded  of  him,  to  that  one 
woman  in  his  heart  he  would  be  faithful  while  he  lived. 

When,  hours  later,  he  replaced  all  that  dear  rub- 
bish in  its  drawer  it  was  too  late  for  Queen  Anne's, 
and  Caroline  who  awaited  him  there.  There  had  been 
relief  in  the  tears,  there  was  relief,  too,  in  this. 

Betty  did  not  come  in  with  the  other  children 
to  bid  him  good-night,  but  when  he  sent  for  her  she 
appeared  leaden-faced  and  sullen,  dragging  her  feet 
reluctantly  across  the  floor  to  him  as  he  held  out  his 
hand. 

"  Betty,"  he  said  very  kindly,  but  with  a  manner 
more  firm  and  dignified  than  that  to  which  the  child 
was  accustomed  :  "  You  are  older  than  the  others — 
and  I  have  a  thing  to  say  to  you  which  I  wish  you 
always  to  remember.  I  am  going  to  marry  a  lady — 
a  kind  and  clever  lady,  who  will  take  care  of  us,  and 
show  us  the  right  thing  to  do.  I  hope  we  shall  be  all 
happy  together,  and  that  things  may  be  more  pleas- 
ant. But  I  shall  not  forget  your  mother.  Never  for 
an  instant.  That  is  what  I  wished  to  say  to  you, 
Betty.  Don't  forget  it.  Now,  kiss  me,  my  child,  and 
go  to  bed." 


"MINE  OWN  FAMILIAR  FRIEND."  83 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"  MINE   OWN   FAMILIAR   FRIEND." 

MR.  JERVOIS  had  prayed  of  Caroline  that  his  pro- 
bation might  be  short,  and  it  was  arranged  that  in  six 
weeks  the  mistress  of  Queen  Anne's  Cottage  should 
allow  herself  to  be  installed  mistress  of  the  rectory. 

When  about  half  that  time  was  passed  the  curate 
suddenly  succumbed  to  the  temptation,  which,  since 
Violet's  departure,  had  incessantly  beset  him,  and,  in 
spite  of  his  promise  that  she  should  be  unmolested, 
drove  in  to  Edmundsbury  to  seek  her. 

A  faint  hope  had  been  held  out  to  him  that  she 
might  write.  In  the  ardor  of  his  condition  and  the 
matured  hopefulness  of  his  mind  he  had  looked  for 
the  possible  letter  by  the  first  post  she  must  have 
hurried  to  catch  on  reaching  her  home.  He  passed 
the  interval  between  that  first  disappointment  and  the 
present  unexpected  break-down  in  convincing  himself 
that  her  not  writing  to  him  was  a  favorable  sign. 
He  persuaded  himself  that  there  really  was  no  doubt 
about  the  result.  At  that  second  interview  surely  she 
had  as  good  as  promised  herself  to  him.  The  fact 
that  everyone  took  her  ultimate  acceptance  of  him  as 
a  matter  of  course  was  very  reassuring.  His  sister, 
the  rector,  usually  spoke  to  him  of  the  time  when 
Violet  should  be  with  him.  The  children  were  more 
intimate  than  discreet  in  their  conversation  on  the 
subject ;  Ian  even  going  so  far  as  to  implore  him  never 


84  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

to  have  any  children  of  his  own,  she  and  Betty  and 
Emily  being  quite  sufficient  for  him.  While,  as  for 
Yiolet — Yiolet  should  have  one  of  Paul's  kittens 
when  he  had  them,  an  event  to  which  Ian  was  always 
looking  forward  on  the  tiptoe  of  expectation. 

In  the  face  of  all  this  it  was  difficult  to  remember 
the  uncertainty  of  the  event,  and  to  rebuke  an 
ecstatic,  anticipatory  joy. 

"  Yiolet  will  not  make  you  a  clever  housewife,  I 
fear,"  Caroline  often  said  to  him,  being  of  that  excel- 
lent order  of  woman  who  does  not  shrink  from  the 
prophesying  of  unpleasant  things. 

What  did  Billy  Carlyon  care?  If  Yiolet,  who  lived 
in  his  heart,  would  live  also  under  his  roof,  what  did 
puddings  and  cakes  and  the  putting  on  of  buttons 
signify  ?  He  was  a  sentimental  being  and  he  looked 
at  the  marriage  state  not  apprehensively  at  all  with 
his  young  eyes,  seeing  only  the  pretty  wife  who  was 
to  laugh  and  jest  and  pla}r  with  him  as  well  as  love 
him.  The  sun  was  always  to  shine  on  these  two — 
always  gay  and  happ3T,  laughing  and  chatting  as  they 
went  about  their  parish  work,  helping  each  other  to 
put  the  sadness  of  what  they  saw  out  of  sight  in  their 
own  homes.  The  hearth  was  always  to  be  warm 
there,  the  firelight  that  flickered  on  their  faces  was  to 
find  them  always  as  smooth  and  serene. 

There  were  alterations  in  the  arrangement  of  his 
house  which  would  be  desirable  in  the  event  of  his 
marriage — he  longed  for  Caroline  to  be  gone  that  he 
might  set  about  these.  In  the  meantime  he  contented 
himself  as  well  as  he  could  in  sinking  a  tennis  court 
in  the  meadow  beyond  the  kitchen  garden. 

At  this  labor  of  love  he  worked  daily  with  an  en- 
thusiasm beautiful  to  see.  His  unremarkable  eyes  of 


"MINE  OWN  FAMILIAR  FRIEND."  85 

boyish  blue  were  suffused  with  happiness  as  he  lifted 
them  to  contemplate  the  progress  of  his  work.  The 
little  Jervoises  had  never  known  even  "  Billy  "  so 
sweet  in  temper,  so  hilarious,  such  good  fun. 

They  came  across  to  help  him  at  the  tennis  court 
one  morning,  Ian  and  Emily  more  of  a  hindrance  than 
otherwise,  perhaps,  but  Betty  working  like  a  little 
navvy  at  his  side,  driving  in  her  spade  with  her  foot 
upon  the  blade,  flinging  out  shovelful  for  shovelful 
with  him,  who  to  humor  her  may  have  slackened  his 
speed  a  little.  Peter,  through  an  ever-to-be-glorified 
outbreak  of  measles  in  the  school,  was  home  again  in 
those  days,  but  he  had  found  more  entertainment  in 
lying  along  the  fresh-turned  soil  on  his  stomach  to 
study  the  contents  of  an  overturned  ant  heap  than  in 
taking  a  share  in  the  useful  labors  around  him. 
Betty  straightened  herself,  shook  back  her  hanging 
hair  that  the  morning  sunlight  might  shine  into  her 
eyes,  and  looked  across  at  a  group  of  elm-trees  in  the 
near  distance  round  which  the  rooks  were  whistling 
and  calling. 

"  We  ought  to  have  made  it  nearer  to  a  tree,  Bill," 
she  said. 

"  There  won't  be  anywhere  for  Mr.  Harringay  to 
sit  while  you  and  Violet  play,  Bill,"  Emily  remarked. 
Emily,  the  least  clever  of  the  children,  had  as  make- 
weight, the  insight  of  sympathy.  Her  speech  was 
curiously  often  the  statement  of  Betty's  unexpressed 
thought. 

"  Poor  old  Harringay  always  played  tennis  lying  in 
a  chair  with  Betty  at  his  feet,"  the  curate  remembered, 
recalling  the  past  with  a  laugh.  "  Lazy  beggar  1 " 
said  Peter,  gently  stirring  the  ruins  of  the  ant  heap 
with  his  fingers. 


86  THE  CEDAR  STAR. 

"  Lazy  beggar  yourself!  "  said  Betty,  with  a  kick 
at  the  ant-hill. 

The  boy  caught  the  vicious  little  foot :  "  You  wait 
till  you  get  to  school,  my  lady !  you'll  see  what  will 
happen  if  you  kick  and  talk  about '  beggars '  there." 

"  Let  go  her  foot,"  said  the  curate,  and  Peter 
obej'ed,  getting  a  kick  here  and  there  in  not  very  vul- 
nerable parts  of  his  body  as  reward.  He  did  not  ob- 
ject in  the  least.  It  was  his  ant-hill  he  wanted  to  pro- 
tect. 

"  Come  back  to  your  work,  and  don't  be  a  fool, 
Betty,"  the  curate  recommended,  and  the  young  lady 
returned  to  her  shoveling  of  the  earth. 

"  Mr.  Harringay  never  gave  Betty  the  oil  paints  he 
promised,"  Ian  observed.  "  He  promised  and  prom- 
ised !  " 

"  He'll  bring  'em  for  her  from  Paris  one  of  these 
fine  days,"  the  curate  said. 

"  He  isn't  in  Paris,  though,"  said  Peter.  "  I  forgot 
to  tell  you.  Betty  !  Halloo !  Come  here.  Look  at 
these  two  fellows,  do  you  see  ?  They've  caught  this 
lady  with  wings — look,  they're  dragging  her — " 

"  Not  in  Paris  ?  "  said  the  curate.  He  raised  him- 
self and  looked  at  the  boy  sprawling  on  the  ground 
with  a  curiously  stunned  expression. 

"  She  was  trying  to  escape — they  often  do — and 
these  sturdy  little  rascals  have  brought  her  back." 

Carlyon  went  across  and  prodded  the  boy  in  the 
back  with  his  spade  :  "  Harringay  is  in  Paris,"  he 
said. 

"  Then,  I  tell  you  he  isn't,"  Peter  declared  impa- 
tiently— "  drop  that  now,  Mr.  Carlyon,  that  spade 
hurts.  Father  and  I  met  him  yesterday  when  we 
drove  into  Bdmundsbury.  He  said  he'd  changed  his 


"MINE  OWN  FAMILIAR  FRIEND."  87 

mind  and  he  wasn't  going  for  another  few  weeks. 
Father  asked  him  to  ride  over,  and  he  said  he 
wouldn't." 

"  That  don't  seem  very  kind  to  Betty,"  said  Emily, 
"  he  might  have  sent  the  oil  paints  by  post." 

"  As  if  I  want  his  old  oil  paints  !  "  said  Betty,  very 
fierce,  being  indeed  wounded  to  the  quick. 

"  That's  enough  work  for  to-day.  Cut  home  to 
dinner,"  the  curate  said  and  threw  down  his  spade. 
He  did  not  explain  to  himself  why  the  fashioning  of 
the  tennis  ground  had  in  a  moment  become  a  thing 
of  no  consequence,  a  senseless  thing.  He  did  not  tell 
himself  why  he  so  suddenly  determined  that  he  could 
not  wait  for  Violet's  answer  longer,  but  would  go  and 
get  it.  He  did  not  even  mention  to  his  sister  his  des- 
tination, but  as  soon  as  his  midday  meal  was  eaten, 
he  changed  his  every-day,  dark  grey  clothes  for  his 
best  suit  of  black  and  started  for  Edmundsbury. 

Taffy,  the  old  white  cob  he  drove,  had  been  pur- 
chased of  a  neighboring  baker  who  since  the  transac- 
tion had  always  his  tongue  in  his  cheek  when  speak- 
ing of  the  curate.  The  young  man's  friends,  too,  had 
laughed  at  the  deed  but  Betty  had  approved.  Betty 
had  seen  the  baker  beat  the  white  cob  about  the  head 
with  his  clenched  fist  one  day,  and  had  not  rested 
until  Bill,  as  was  usual,  had  constituted  himself  the 
victim.  And  Bill  himself  was  content. 

"  I  don't  want  spirited  horse-flesh  to  drag  me  out 
once  in  a  blue  moon,  and  I'm  never  very  much  in  a 
hurry,"  he  explained. 

It  took  him  nearly  three  hours  to  accomplish  the 
fourteen  miles  which  separated  Blow  Weston  from 
Edmundsbury,  and  the  curate  had  plenty  of  time  for 
reflection. 


88  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

To  be  patient  was  Bill's  nature,  but  be  told  himself 
now  that  perhaps  patience  was  out  of  place  in  a  love 
affair.  He  bad  meant  by  bis  forbearance  to  show  his 
confidence  in  the  girl — and  perhaps  it  bad  looked  as 
if  he  had  not  cared. 

Not  cared !  He  cracked  his  whip  smartly  above  the 
head  of  the  old  white  horse,  the  blood  came  with  a 
rush  to  his  face.  Not  cared!  He  looked  appealingly 
round  on  sky  and  trees,  calling  all  nature  to  witness 
to  the  eagerness  of  his  love. 

It  was  some  time  before  Taffy  forgave  him  the  in- 
dignity of  that  stroke  of  the  whip.  He  kicked  with 
stiff  old  hind  legs,  and  stumbled  with  front  ones ;  he 
lashed  his  tail  over  the  rein,  and  hung  his  bridle  upon 
the  shafts ;  went  through  in  fact  his  whole  repertoire 
of  ill  manners  before  he  started  smoothly  on  his  cour 
again.  It  was  four  o'clock  before  Carlyon  passed  the 
tower  of  St.  Ethelred's  Church,  of  which  poor  parish 
Violet's  father  was  incumbent,  and  with  much  diffi- 
culty succeeded  in  turning  Taffy's  foolish  old  stub- 
born head  into  the  Red  Lion  yard. 

As  he  came  out  into  the  street  and  turned  in  the 
direction  of  the  Beltons'  house,  it  was  as  if  the  town 
had  been  present  to  him  as  the  abode  of  his  friend 
rather  than  of  his  love.  It  was  the  figure  of  Harrin- 
gay  he  looked  for,  ahead  of  him,  and  down  each  turn- 
ing. The  footsteps  that  now  and  again  threatened  to 
overtake  him,  only  he  alwaj's  hurried  his  speed  and 
never  looked  behind — must  be  those  of  Harringay. 
When  he  turned  into  the  street  that  led  to  the  Beltons' 
house  it  was  with  a  feeling  of  intensest  relief  he  found 
it  stretching  quiet,  hot  and  sunshiny,  before  him, 
empty  of  the  figure  which  haunted  his  mind. 

Dear  old  Harringay  1     It  was  a  shame  to  have  had 


" MINE  OWN  FAMILIAR  FRIEND."  89 

that  inexplicable  dread  of  meeting  him — being  clear 
of  it,  the  curate  was  filled  with  remorse. 

The  garden  of  the  Beltons'  house  was  shut  from 
the  road  by  a  tall  flint  wall  over  which  the  heads  of 
a  copper-beach,  an  acacia  or  two,  some  elder-bushes 
showed.  When  Carlyon  reached  the  beginning  of  this 
wall,  a  green  door  which  was  set  in  it  opened  and  a 
man  came  out. 

Before  recognition  of  that  figure  could  be  conveyed 
by  the  eyes  to  the  brain,  the  curate  knew  whose  it 
was.  The  two  men  met  beneath  the  over-topping 
boughs  of  the  copper-beach,  a  half-dozen  yards  from 
Violet's  doorstep.  They  did  not  shake  hands,  nor  did 
any  greeting  soever  pass  between  them. 

"  Do  you  mind  turning  back  with  me  for  a  few 
minutes  ?  "  Harringay  asked,  and  they  walked  side  by 
side  till  the  boundary  of  the  garden  wall  was  reached. 

Some  of  the  younger  Beltons  were  playing  tennis 
beyond  the  acacia  branches.  An  excited  voice  cried 
clear  and  shrill,  "  A  love  set !  a  love  set !  Hooray  ! " 

Bill  thought  of  the  uncompleted  court  at  Queen 
Anne's.  The  court  that  would  never  be  finished  now ! 

"  I  suppose  you  can  guess  what  I  have  to  tell  you?" 
Harringa}'  said.  His  face  had  paled  but  he  lifted  his 
head  and  looked  at  the  other  fiercely — at  Bill  with  a 
shamed  face  and  a  hanging  head. 

"  Yes,"  Bill  assented  miserably.     "  I  suppose  so." 

"  I  won't  ask  for  a  light  judgment,"  Harringay  went 
on.  "  I  will  only  ask  you  to  believe  that  when  we 
spoke  together  last,  I,  at  any  rate,  thought  that  I  was 
honest." 

There  was  a  pause;  then,  "  I  believe  it,"  Bill  said 
lowly. 

If  he  had  broken  his  stick  across  the  other's  back, 


90  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

it  is  certain  Harringa}7  would  not  have  been  punished 
as  those  unexpected  words  punished  him. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  and  held  his  head  still  higher, 
his  thin  lips  close  shut,  his  jaw  locked  as  if  in  pain. 

When  the  pair  had  reached  the  end  of  that  quiet 
street,  where  the  shadows  of  the  old  houses,  and  of 
the  tree-topped  walls  lay  as  if  in  the  peace  of  cen- 
turies, they  stopped. 

"  You  won't  be  wanting  to  see  any  more  of  me, 
Carlyon,"  Harringay  said.  "  In  a  mouth  we  shall  be 
gone.  In  all  probability  we  shall  never  come  back." 

"  Violet  is  going  with  you  ? " 

"  Yes,  Bill,  you  must  blame  me  for  all."  He  set  his 
teeth  for  a  moment  when  he  had  said  that — for  he 
had  forced  himself  to  say  the  words — they  did  not 
come  from  his  heart.  It  was  Violet  who  had  been  to 
blame — who  else  1 — who  had  lured  him  with  her 
foolish  little  baits  till  he  had  played,  with  e}'es  wide 
open,  this  dastard's  part.  "  Violet  is  full  of  sorrow 
about  you,"  he  went  on  with  an  effort  to  say  the  decent 
thing,  to  be  loyal  to  the  girl,  whom  in  that  crisis  he 
felt  he  hated  and  despised.  "  Perhaps  you  will  go  and 
see  her  ?  " 

But  Bill  shook  his  head  :  "  No,"  he  said.  "  I  think 
I  may  as  well  get  back  to  Blow  Weston.  There 
doesn't  seem  to  be  much  good  in  anjrthing  else,  now." 

Harringay  was  silent  for  a  minute — indeed  between 
every  sentence,  long  pauses  fell,  each  man  making  a 
huge  effort  to  keep  what  emotion  he  felt  well  in  hand, 
and  free  utterance  being  difficult. 

Perhaps  Harringay  had  not  valued  the  curate's 
friendship  at  much — perhaps  he  had  despised  him  a 
little,  the  long,  narrow  young  man,  with  his  bo3'ish 
manners,  his  youthful  outlook,  his  unambitious,  in- 


"MINE  OWN  FAMILIAR  FRIEND."  91 

artistic,  half-awakened  nature,  yet  now  a  strange  in- 
clination  to  cling  to  what  he  had  lost  came  over  him. 
He  would  have  given  Violet,  and  Violet's  easily  won 
adoration  without  a  grudging  thought  for  the  right 
to  walk  down  Edmundsbury  High  Street  at  Bill 
Carlyon's  side  and  no  shadow  between  them  1 

"  You  will  do  me  the  credit  to  believe  I  feel  badly 
about  all  this,"  he  said.  "  If  it  could  have  been  un- 
done I  would  have  undone  it.  It  can't  be  undone.  I 
thank  you  for  everything,  Carlyon.  You  are  worth 
ten  thousand  of  me — if  Violet  had  only  the  sense  to 
see  it.  Good-bye.  I  sha'n't  see  you  again — but  I 
sha'n't  forget." 

"  Good-bye,"  Bill  said. 

They  had  reached  the  entrance  of  the  street  leading 
to  the  livery  stables,  and  Carlyon  turned  abruptly 
down  it  on  his  way  to  stubborn,  ungracious  old  Taffy, 
to  Queen  Anne's,  to  the  unfinished  tennis  court.  And 
Harringay  stood  where  the  roads  met,  and  looked  after 
the  receding  figure,  feeling,  with  a  sickening  cer- 
tainty, for  ever  precluding  illusion  on  the  subject,  that 
the  love  of  Violet  Belton  had  been  dearty  bought  at 
the  price  of  one  tithe  of  the  disgust,  and  the  re- 
morse and  the  shame  he  felt. 

He  mentally  followed  that  lost  friend  of  his  on  his 
homeward  journey  ;  he  saw  how  differently  even  the 
familiar  landscape  would  look  to  the  man  whose  heart 
was  wounded  almost  to  death,  whose  life  was  robbed 
of  its  delight.  It  was  from  his  own  lips  his  people 
would  have  to  learn  that  his  love  had  been  false  to 
him,  his  friend  untrue.  And  Harringay  knew  that 
whoever  blamed — the  rector  in  his  peevish  irritation 
at  having  a  favorite  plan  set  aside,  the  sister  in  her 
narrow-minded  incomprehension  of  the  passion,  the 


92  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

inconsistency,  the  weakness  of  a  man's  nature — 
Carlyon  himself  would  be  the  one  to  find  excuses,  to 
defend. 

These  things  passed  through  his  mind — and  many 
more  remorseful,  bitter,  pitiful  thoughts — in  a  flash 
and  all  before  Bill  had  reached  the  second  lamp  post 
from  that  at  the  corner  of  the  street,  where  Harringay 
stood.  For  when  he  did  reach  that  point  he  turned 
sharply  back,  and  retracing  his  steps,  came  up  to 
Harringay  and  put  out  his  hand  : 

"  I  don't  think  we  shook  hands,"  Bill  said  simply. 
"  Good-bye." 

Harringay's  eyes  smarted  for  the  relief  of  tears  as  he 
walked  away,  but  no  tears  came.  He  sickened  under 
the  sense  of  inferiority,  of  degradation  which  he  would 
have  to  carry  through  life.  He  looked  with  gloomy 
eyes  and  locked  lips  down  the  dull  and  common  street 
before  him  as  if  it  were  his  own  future  life  he  was 
looking  into.  "  Is  she  worth  it  ?  Is  she  worth  it?  " 
was  the  intolerable  burden  of  his  thought.  "  Having 
walked  through  this  mire  to  win  her,  she  being  won, 
do  I  want  her — do  I  ever  so  little  care  ?  " 


END   OP   PART  I. 


PART  II. 

Are  these  the  skies  we  used  to  know 

The  budding  wood,  the  fresh-blown  mead? 

Where  are  the  springs  of  long  ago  ? 


AFTER  TEN  YEARS.  95 


CHAPTER  I. 

AFTER   TEN   YEARS. 

"  BETTY  must  come,"  the  curate  said.  "  I  will  go 
and  fetch  her." 

The  rector  of  Blow  Weston  had  been  married  for  a 
half  score  years,  and  his  union  had  been  blessed  by 
the  birth  of  several  children — a  contingency  which 
had  presented  itself  as  a  probability  to  everyone 
around  him,  but  which  Mr.  Jervois  persisted  in  re- 
garding as  a  circumstance  surprising  as  it  was  un- 
welcome, one  which  could  not  have  recommended  it- 
self to  the  perception  of  the  most  far-seeing  man. 

When  his  youngest  boy — there  were  five  of  them — 
was  two  years  old,  the  83;mptoms  of  an  illness  from 
which  there  could  be  no  recovery  declared  themselves 
in  the  head  of  the  house,  and  with  the  illness  a  desire 
to  have  the  children  of  his  first  wife  by  his  side,  grew 
and  asserted  himself. 

The  illness  was  likely  to  be  a  long  and  painful  one. 
Mrs.  Jervois  herself  was  not  averse  from  having  a 
responsible  person  beside  her  to  share  the  difficulties 
and  disagreeables  of  the  case.  She  consulted  with 
her  brother,  still  living  at  Queen  Anne's  in  spite  of 
more  than  one  chance  of  preferment.  The  Rev. 
William  Carlyon  was  no  more  ambitious  than  of  yore, 
no  more  fond  of  change.  He  liked  the  place,  he  had 
enough  for  his  needs,  the  people  were  fond  of  him. 
When  the  inevitably  fatal  result  of  the  rector's  illness 
was  mentioned  for  the  first  time  between  brother  and 


96  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

sister,  "  They  will  give  jrou  Blow  Weston  and  Cral> 
berton,"  Mrs.  Jervois  had  said,  not  without  some  na- 
tural bitterness. 

"  In  that  case  you  and  the  children  won't  have  to 
turn  out,"  Bill  had  answered  ;  which  assurance  had 
been  of  great  comfort  to  Caroline  Jervois,  already 
worrying  herself  and  her  stricken  husband  in  a  some- 
what premature  way  about  plans  for  her  future  and 
that  of  the  boys. 

"  Of  course,  Peter  is  out  of  the  question,"  Mrs. 
Jervois  now  said  to  her  brother,  talking  over  the 
matter  of  the  father's  desire  for  one  of  his  children, 
"  he  has  already  taken  his  holiday.  Betty  won't  like 
the  interruption,  and  would  be,  besides,  of  small  help 
and  no  comfort — you  know  how  impossible  Betty  is. 
Emily,  who  now  seems  quite  settled  with  that  de- 
lightful family  in  Heidelberg  and  writes  her  father 
charming  letters,  must  on  no  account  be  disturbed. 
Yet  he  is  evidently  fretting  about  it,  and  Doctor 
Watkins  says  he  must  not  be  thwarted — what  is  to  be 
done  ?  " 

Then,  "  Betty  must  come.  I  will  fetch  her,"  said 
the  curate. 

It  was  on  a  raw  afternoon  in  November  that  the 
Reverend  William  Carlyon  arrived,  in  a  somewhat 
breathless  condition  at  the  top  of  the  seventy-two  stairs 
leading  to  the  flat  in  Wilmington  Terrace,  which,  for 
a  year  past,  had  been  the  home  of  Peter  and  Betty 
Jervois. 

When  it  had  been  first  declared  that,  owing  to  his 
increasing  family,  the  Reverend  Eustace  Jervois  did 
not  feel  justified  in  sending  his  eldest  son  to  college, 
Peter  had  taken  the  announcement  calmly.  It  was 


AFTER   TEN  YEARS.  97 

Betty  who  had  been  furious.  She  had  written  from 
Germany,  where  she  was  still  at  school,  a  letter  to  her 
father  which  had  made  him  very  uncomfortable — 
worse,  which  he  was  called  on  to  resent,  because  in  it 
allusions  had  been  made  to  his  second  wife  which  that 
lady  declined  to  have  overlooked. 

"  You  have  now  six  sons,"  Caroline  reminded  her 
husband,  u  are  you  in  a  position  to  give  them  all  a 
university  education  ?  " 

Such  a  question  required  no  answer;  but  Betty's 
letter  was  answered,  and  she  was  requested  to  spend 
her  next  yearly  holiday  in  Heidelberg  to  save  the  ex- 
pense of  the  journe}7  home. 

Betty  had  written  only  one  line  in  reply  to  this 
request. 

"  Home  ?  where  is  my  home  ?  "  she  had  written  in 
her  fierce,  impulsive  way.  "  My  dear  mother's  chil- 
dren have  no  home  ;  and  that  my  father  knows." 

To  the  rectory  she,  at  least,  would  never  go  again  ; 
and,  not  being  of  that  wisdom  which  keeps  its  own 
counsel,  she  wrote  to  that  effect,  roundly,  and  in  so 
many  words.  It  was  a  decision  that  freed  the  rector 
from  a  good  many  annoyances — the  constant  friction 
between  his  eldest  daughter  and  his  wife  was  an  ex- 
perience to  escape  from  by  any  means.  It  was  only 
when  his  mortal  illness  seized  him  that  things  looked 
different,  and  that  nature  re-asserted  herself. 

When  the  time  came  for  Betty  to  leave  school  she 
declined  a  very  advantageous  offer  which  was  made 
her  to  stay  as  English  governess  with  a  family  of 
whom  she  was  fond.  Only  one  could  fill  the  post — 
let  Emily  take  it — Emily  who  had  no  other  prospect 
and  whom  the  life  would  suit.  It  would  not  suit 
Betty.  But  she  was  not  without  resource.  She 
7 


98  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

wrote  to  Peter,  whose  career  which  his  sisters  had 
firmly  expected  would  be  great,  had  ended  in  a  civil 
service  clerkship  and  a  salary  of  a  hundred  a  year, 
proposing  to  share  with  him  for  a  year  or  so. 

"  I  won't  cost  you  much,  and  in  the  end  I  will  pay 
you  back,  and  much  more,"  she  had  said  with  confi- 
dence. 

She  had  lived  with  her  brother  for  more  than  a  year 
in  Wilmington  Terrace  ;  and  the  days  when  he  should 
be  "  paid  back  "  seemed  sometimes  very  near,  some- 
times impossible  of  realization. 

On  this  November  afternoon  she  was  more  than  us- 
ually depressed.  She  had  walked  through  fog  and  a 
drizzling  rain  to  the  Art  School  she  attended  in  the 
morning ;  through  fog  and  a  drenching  rain  she  re- 
turned in  the  afternoon.  Everything  had  been  wrong, 
the  light,  the  model,  the  position  of  her  easel,  the  at- 
mosphere of  the  overheated  room.  The  students, 
chattering  in  the  passages,  laughing  over  their  work, 
throwing  lumps  of  charcoal  and  pellets  of  bread  at 
each  other  across  the  room,  had  irritated  her  sadly. 
She  could  not  comfortably  despise  them,  because, 
looking  around  on  that  afternoon,  it  seemed  to  her 
that  most  of  them  were  far  cleverer  than  she.  And 
they  worked  with  light  hearts,  not  caring.  The  pro- 
fessor, whom,  according  to  her  mood  and  his  attitude 
toward  her  work,  she  adored  or  detested,  standing  at 
her  back,  influenced,  likewise,  by  the  master,  perhaps, 
had  said  one  or  two  cruel  things  to  her  about  the  bad 
construction,  the  false  proportion,  the  unmeaning 
modelling  of  her  subject.  After  which  he  had  wound 
up  with  his  usual  sighing  formula.  "  You  can  do 
better,  3-011  know,  much  better.  However,  go  on,  go 
on,"  and  had  so  passed  to  the  next  easel. 


AFTER   TEN  YEARS.  99 

After  that  Betty  had  sat  on  her  "  donkey  "  before 
her  condemned  work  for  half  an  hour,  her  hands  in 
her  lap  doing  nothing,  glowering  fiercely  upon  the  ir- 
repressible array  of  students  around  her.  How  un- 
concerned and  flippant  they  seemed,  even  after  the 
professor  had  passed  behind  them,  crushing  them 
severally  as  was  his  wont.  It  was  because  they  did 
not  care  they  did  so  well !  Not  one  among  them  had 
such  an  eager  desire  to  succeed  as  she.  Probably  not 
one  among  them  was  crippling  a  brother's  slender  re- 
sources until  such  time  as  she  could  earn  enough  for 
daily  bread.  Was  there  one  among  the  frivolous  orew 
who  felt  within  her  that  strong  craving — a  hunger 
for  recognition  merely — which  Betty  took  to  be  a 
guarantee  of  her  power  ?  One,  who  after  every  re- 
buff had  clenched  hands  and  teeth  and  reared  in- 
domitable front,  saying  "  I  will  1  I  will  1  " 

This  certainly  recurring  mood  was  not  hers  at  pres- 
ent. It  was  impossible  to  work  longer  that  afternoon. 
She  put  away  the  temporarily  detested  drawing  ma- 
terials and  went. 

In  the  passage  she  had  encountered  the  professor 
on  his  way  to  pupils  in  the  portrait  room.  On  the 
impulse  of  the  moment  she  spoke  to  him,  an  unusual 
proceeding  on  the  part  of  a  student,  for,  in  spite  of 
an  encouraging  urbanity  of  manner,  when  not  engaged 
on  criticising  their  works  his  pupils  held  the  great 
man  in  considerable  awe. 

"  I  can't  work  this  afternoon,"  said  Betty,  attack- 
ing him,  as  with  a  smile  and  a  bow,  he  would  have 
hurried  past.  "  You  have  utterly  disheartened  me." 

"  Indeed  ?  I  am  sorry,"  he  said,  smiling  upon  her 
with  his  head  on  one  side  as  she  stood  before  him,  a 
picturesque  and  charming  figure  in  her  painting  blouse 


100  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

of  "  butcher  "  blue.  He  was  better  acquaint  with  the 
back  views  of  his  pupils  than  their  faces,  and  there 
were  among  them  many  attractive  figures  and  notice- 
able heads  of  hair.  For  his  convenience  their  names 
were  written  upon  their  easels,  and  he  did  not  alwa3Ts 
couple  names  and  faces  correctly  when  the  latter 
smiled  upon  him,  meeting  him  on  stairway  or  in  cor- 
rider.  But  there  was  an  unusualness,  either  attract- 
ive or  the  reverse,  according  to  the  taste  of  the  be- 
holder, about  Betty  Jervois  which  always  established 
her  identity.  "  You  must  not  be  discouraged,  Miss 
Jervois,"  he  said  sweetly. 

"  Shall  I  succeed  ?  Is  there  any  sense  in  my  going 
on  ?  Shall  I  ever  do  an3'thing  ?  "  Betty  asked  him 
imperiously.  She  affected  to  despise  his  opinion  some- 
times. She  had  often  told  herself  that  though  the 
professor  might  be  able  to  teach,  it  was  impossible  for 
him  ever  to  become  an  artist  in  the  sense  that  she 
felt  herself  to  be  one.  Yet  now  her  tone  was  fierce 
from  anxiety  and  her  heart  stood  still  to  hear  his 
answer. 

"  You  have  made  great  progi'ess.  Go  on,  by  all 
means,  to  be  sure,"  the  professor  said,  and  again  with 
the  smile  and  the  sidelong  bow  of  the  head  was 
slipping  past,  but  Betty  stopped  him  with  a  further 
question. 

"  Tell  me  this.  It  is  of  the  utmost  importance  to 
me  that  I  know.  Am  I  better  than  the  others — the 
crowd  ?  Is  there  more  hope  of  me  than  of  them  ?  I 
want  to  know.  Tell  me  honestly." 

"  You  must  remember  that  our  students  are  of  a 
very  high  average,"  he  said,  sweeping  slowly  from  his 
brow  the  long  black  hair  against  which  his  delicate 
thin  hand  showed  in  such  pleasing  contrast.  "  To 


AFTER   TEN  YEARS.  101 

hold  your  own  at  such  a  level  is  sufficient  in  the 
present,  I  think.  You  hold  your  own,  Miss  Jer- 
vois." 

So  Betty  put  on  her  scarcely  dried  cloak,  unfurled 
her  umbrella,  and  shivering  from  the  contrast  of  the 
unkindly  outdoor  atmosphere  with  the  sweltering 
condition  of  the  room  heated  to  the  requirements  of 
the  naked  model,  went  home  to  Wilmington  Terrace 
in  no  very  elated  mood. 

And  when  she,  too,  had  mounted  the  nine  flights 
of  stone  steps,  and  passed  the  nine  stone  balconies, 
guarded  by  iron  rails  upon  which  each  flat  looked  out 
she  reached,  weariedly  enough,  her  own  particular 
domain.  And  there  was  the  curate  of  Blow  Weston, 
standing  patiently  beneath  his  umbrella,  looking  forth 
upon  the  blurred,  depressing  landscape  as  seen  above 
the  iron  rail. 

On  one  other  occasion  the  Reverend  William 
Carlyon  had  scaled  those  heights  and  made  an  unex- 
pected descent  upon  Betty  and  Peter  in  their  lofty  but 
hardly  exalted  retreat.  For  Caroline  Jervois  had 
been  shocked  and  filled  with  forebodings  when  she  had 
heard  of  Betty's  scheme.  To  live  alone  in  a  flat  with 
a  brother  scarce  older  than  herself — a  girl  of  Betty's 
daring  and  self-willed  disposition,  and  of  the  peculiar 
and  noticeable  appearance  I  Who  could  tell  what 
mischief — even  what  disgrace  might  result?  The 
rector  shook  his  head,  staring  helplessly,  saying  noth- 
ing. It  was  far  less  trouble  to  agree  with  his  wife, 
who  was  ingenious  in  finding  up  daily,  fresh  matters 
of  worry  and  irritation,  than  to  disagree.  It  was 
marvellous  how,  in  a  question  vitally  concerning  his 
own  flesh  and  blood,  he  could  be  so  apathetic,  Caroline 
thought. 


102  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

But  to  Caroline's  brother  the  rector  had  said :  "  Go 
and  have  a  look  at  the  boy  and  girl,  Bill,  and  say  a 
word  of  his  responsibility  to  Peter,  and  caution  Betty. 
Will  you  ?  " 

Betty  had  been  twenty  years  of  age  on  that  first 
occasion  when  her  childhood's  friend  had  seen  her, 
with  the  familiar  touzle  of  her  aggressive  hair  subdued 
into  a  knot  at  the  back  of  her  head,  come  to  woman's 
estate !  All  through  that  first  visit  Carlyon  had  been 
vexed  and  perplexed  by  that  mysterious,  indescribable 
change  from  girl  to  woman.  Pull  down  the  coils  of 
curling  dark  red  hair,  shorten  the  skirt  a  half  foot, 
and  there  was  the  Betty  of  the  old  days,  of  fun,  of  re- 
bellion, of  disaster.  And  yet — 

But  a  year  with  its  effort,  its  strain,  its  disappoint- 
ments, its  experience  of  exhausting  work  in  over- 
heated rooms,  of  daily  walks  in  ugly,  common  streets, 
of  the  sadness  and  depression  of  life  in  a  neighborhood 
of  anxious  toilers,  had  left  its  mark.  Between  twenty 
and  twenty-one  a  gap  was  fixed.  It  almost  seemed  to 
Carlyon  as  he  looked  at  the  pale  and  tired  face  of  the 
girl  before  him  in  her  rain-soaked  cloak,  that  she  and 
the  Betty  who  had  been  a  child  in  the  days  when  he, 
as  it  looked  to  him  now,  had  been  a  bo}',  had  very 
little  in  common. 

"  Bill !  I'm  so  glad !  "  she  said.  But  he  noticed 
that  her  gladness  was  not  great  enough  to  dispel  the 
weariness  of  her  voice,  although  her  tired  face  bright- 
ened a  little,  and  the  luminous  grey  eyes  looked  at  him 
with  a  serious  friendliness.  "  Nothing  is  the  matter, 
is  there  ?  They  wrote  me  my  father  is  not  very  well. 
He  is  not  worse  ?  " 

"  Not  worse,  to  speak  of,"  the  curate  said  and  Betty, 
having  regarded  him  questioningly  again,  produced 


AFTER   TEN  YEARS.  103 

the  latch-key  from  her  pocket,  opened  the  door  of  the 
flat  and  led  the  way  in. 

"  I  expect  you'll  have  to  help  me  to  light  the  fire," 
she  said,  "  I  always  tell  the  charwoman  to  lay  it  ready 
for  kindling,  but — there,  you  see — she  hasn't  done 
it.  She  is  a  beautifully  consistent  person.  One 
always  knows  she  hasn't  done  things."  She  went 
down  on  her  knees  and  began  angrily,  with  much 
racket  and  dust-raising,  to  rake  the  morning's  ashes 
from  the  grate.  "  There  will  be  poor  Peter  coming 
home,  and  no  fire  and  no  hot  water  1 "  she  explained. 

She  went  out  to  the  kitchen  and  came  back  with 
her  hands  full  of  matches  and  fire-lighters :  "I'm 
sorry  for  you  too,"  she  said  to  Carlyon. 

He  took  the  things  from  her,  and  unfastened  her 
wet  cloak  and  pushed  a  chair  toward  her  ;  "  Sit  there 
and  rest,  and  see  me  light  the  fire,"  he  said.  "  I've  lit 
scores  of  'em.  They  know  the  master-hand.  You'll 
hear  it  crackling  in  no  time.," 

She  was  too  tired  and  cross  and  depressed  to  prevent 
him.  She  sat  in  Peter's  armchair  and  looked  at  the 
big  man  kneeling  on  the  hearth. 

Carlyon  also  had  changed  and  developed  in  the  ten 
years  which  had  given  Betty  her  undesired  step- 
brothers, and  was  broad  now  in  proportion  to  his 
height.  His  once  tow-colored  hair  had  darkened  con- 
siderably and  was  clipped  close  to  his  head.  Some 
lines  had  cut  themselves  about  his  mouth,  sweet- 
natured  as  of  yore,  and  about  the  blue  eyes,  shining 
kindly  as  ever  from  his  pleasant,  florid  face. 

"  Dear  old  Bill !  He  has  grown  quite  presentable," 
Betty  said  to  herself  superciliously,  but  with  a 
little  regret.  He  had  been  dearest  when  he  had  been 
the  silly,  laughing,  long-legged  old  Billy  of  the  past. 


104  THE  CEDAR  STAR. 

"  Where  have  yon  got  your  experience  in  fire-mak- 
ing and  kettle-boiling?"  she  asked  him,  but  he  did 
not  reply,  nor  did  she  need  an  answer  who  knew  that 
he  had  kindled  fires  on  many  a  cold  hearth.  When 
his  people  were  ill  the  curate  insisted  that  they  should 
have  fires  in  their  bedrooms  ;  Betty  had  helped  him  a 
score  of  times  to  trundle  down  to  this  sick  house  and 
that  a  barrow  of  coals  from  his  own  cellar.  In  a  case 
where  there  had  been  no  bedroom  stove  she  remem- 
bered how  he  had  himself  wrapped  his  patient — a 
woman  suffering  from  bronchitis  and  pneumonia — in 
blankets  and  carried  her  in  his  arms  to  the  impromptu 
bed  he  had  constructed  for  her  beside  the  down- 
stairs fire.  Betty  and  the  little  sisters  had  acted 
that  scene  many  a  time,  Bett}r  staggering  under  the 
weight  of  the  year  younger  Emily,  Ian,  by  reason 
of  the  cushion-like  properties  of  her  soft,  rotund 
little  frame  enacting  the  part  of  unpremeditated 
couch. 

The  curate  had  been  but  a  slight,  young  fellow  in 
those  days,  Betty  thought  he  looked  strong  enough  to 
carry  woman,  bed  and  all,  if  need  were,  to-day. 

When  the  firelight  shone  upon  the  little  sitting- 
room,  it  looked  a  cheerful,  home-like  place  enough. 
The  big  bookcase,  filling  one  side  of  the  room,  was 
loaded  not  with  books,  but  with  Peter's  butterfly  and 
moth  cases,  and  with  his  various  appliances  for  catch- 
ing, relaxing,  and  setting  the  insects.  Two  other 
sides  were  nearly  covered  by  photographs,  sketches, 
and  caricatures,  done  by  Betty  and  her  friends,  and 
stuck  with  drawing-pins  on  the  badly  papered  walls. 
The  big  bow  window,  red-curtained,  and  with  a  plant 
or  two  on  one  of  the  window  seats,  all  but  filled  the 
fourth  side.  The  fog  hid  the  cross  on  the  top  of  St 


AFTER   TEN  YEARS.  105 

Pancras  Church  which  was  very  little  above  the  level 
of  the  window. 

Cold  and  rain  and  discomfort  were  all  on  the  out- 
side ;  the  professor's  verdict  was  not  altogether  dis- 
couraging. Bett}r  had  failed  and  fallen  short  of  her- 
self because  she  was  fagged  and  wanted  rest.  To- 
morrow all  things  would  look  brighter. 

The  visitor  had  gone  into  Peter's  bedroom  to  wash 
the  coal-dust  from  his  hands.  Betty  got  up,  pulled 
off  her  hat,  and  peeped  in  the  little  over-mantel  to  see 
if  her  hair  was  in  condition.  She  had  no  fe<ir  of  un- 
frizzed,  draggled  locks,  the  wetter  the  weather,  the 
more  unruly  the  wind,  the  more  pronounced  became 
the  undulations  of  her  dark  red  hair.  She  wondered 
if  Bill  Carlyon  had  the  sense  to  see  how  nice-looking 
she  was.  Her  experience  of  the  sex  did  not  allow 
her  any  serious  anxiety  on  the  subject,  and  Betty  was 
woman  enough  to  value  her  attractiveness  but  not  too 
highly.  She  was  glad  that  the  line  of  her  face,  from 
ear  to  firmly-moulded  chin,  was  perfect,  as  an  aspir- 
ing young  artist  friend  had  told  her  latety,  that  her 
cheek  was  an  even,  healthy  whiteness,  that  her  grey 
eyes  were  black-fringed — but  these  things  were  of 
less  moment  to  her  than  her  art.  According  to  some 
tastes  she  was  the  handsomest  girl  in  the  Walker 
School  life  class,  but  she  would  have  changed  places 
gladly  with  the  diminutive  creature  in  sand-colored 
hair  and  spectacles,  who  had  taken  the  scholarship 
last  year. 

The  curate  came  back  into  the  room  and  placed 
himself  beside  her,  and  they  looked  into  each  other's 
faces  in  the  glass. 

"  You've  grown  broader,  Bill,"  she  said,  smiling  at 
his  reflection. 


106  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

"  You've  grown  older,  Betty." 
"  You  mean  I've  lost  my  girlish  look  ?    I've  no- 
ticed it.     You  see  I  work  rather  hard ;  and  I'm  anx- 
ious ;  and  I  don't  get  on  as  I  thought  I  should." 
"  Chuck  it  up  and  come  back  to  Blow  Weston." 
"  Not  for  worlds  1     I  would  sooner  chuck  up  my 
life."     She  turned  her  back  upon  the  looking-glass 
and  stood  with  her  hands  behind  her,  staring  with 
knit  brows  at  the  opposite  wall,  "  If  I  work  till  I  die 
I  won't  give  up.     There  is  no  power  in  heaven  or  hell 
to  take  me  back  to  Blow  Weston." 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  have  come  for  ?  "  the  curate 
asked  her  quietly.  "  I  have  come  to  take  you  back 
with  me  to-morrow." 

"  Never.     You  can  go  back  without  me." 
"  My  dear  child,  you  will  have  to  come." 
"  You  mean  that  my  father  is  dying  ?  " 
"  Not  actually  at  this  moment.     He  may  live  for 
another  year — for  longer,  even — but  he  will  never  be 
well  again." 

Betty  was  silent,  setting  her  lips. 
"  It  is  Caroline  who  has  sent  for  me,"  she  said  pres- 
ently.   "  Why  should  I  ruin  my  life  and  give  up  my 
career  for — Caroline  ?  " 

"  It  is  your  father  who  wants  you,  Betty." 
The  set  lips  trembled  for  an  instant,  and  a  tear 
sparkled  through  the  black  lashes  and  lay  on  the 
white  cheek.  The  curate  watched  it  with  an  odd 
sensation.  On  those  rare  times  when  child-Betty  had 
cried,  he  had  dabbed  her  tears  with  his  own  pocket- 
handkerchief.  He  remembered  an  occasion,  her  grief 
having  been  unusually  stormy,  when,  by  way  of  com- 
pensation and  at  her  own  request,  he  had  carried  her 
pick-a-back,  from  the  rectory  to  Queen  Anne's. 


AFTER  TEN  YEARS.  107 

Such  modes  of  consolation  were  denied  him  now. 
For  this  reason,  perhaps,  her  tears  affected  him  more. 
He  laid  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder  : 

"  You  will  be  ready  to  go  back  with  me  to-mor- 
row ? "  he  said. 

She  flung  off  his  hand  and  walked  across  the  room 
and  faced  him  there :  "  Neither  to-morrow,  nor  to- 
morrow, nor  to-morrow  1 "  she  said,  "  my  father  chose 
his  companion.  His  children  have  been  ousted  from 
their  places.  He  has  no  right  to  make  any  call  upon 
us.  I  will  not  ruin  my  life  for  him." 

"  The  kettle  is  boiling,"  said  Carlyon. 

"  I  will  not — do  you  hear  ? "  she  said  glaring  back 
at  him  from  the  doorway  through  which  she  was  pass- 
ing "  I  will  not.'' 

Then  she  went  and  fetched  the  tea-tray  from  the 
kitchen,  and  he  watched  her  lay  the  cloth  and  make 
the  tea,  and  cut  the  bread  and  butter.  He  noticed 
that  she  performed  these  offices  with  an  uncalled  for 
emphasis,  expressing  a  firm  and  spirited  determination 
to  have  her  own  way. 

"  There  is  Emily — there  is  Peter,"  she  said  flashing 
the  information  at  him,  as  she  dabbed  the  butter  on 
the  loaf — "  all  are  my  father's  children  although  he 
may  have  forgotten.  Why  should  I  be  asked  to  give 
up  my  career  ?  Who  fixed  on  me  to  go  ?  Let  it  be 
Emily  or  Peter." 

It  is  noticeable  that  she  did  not  also  say, "  Let  it  be 
Ian."  Ian  was  safe  out  of  such  discussion  for  ever — 
dead  and  hidden  away  in  the  German  burial  ground. 
She  had  died  of  diphtheria  during  her  first  term  at 
school. 

"  It  seemed  to  me  that  you  were  the  fittest  to  go, 
and  I  came  for  you,"  said  the  unmoved  curate. 


108  THE  CEDAR  STAR. 

"  Then  you  may  go  back  again — you  may  go  for 
Emily,"  Betty  declared.  She  wheeled  a  chair  vip  to 
the  table  and  majestically  intimated  to  him  that  he 
was  to  sit  down  and  eat. 

He  complied  without  any  misgivings.  The  child  is 
mother  of  the  woman,  he  knew  ;  and  he  had  known 
the  child  Betty  very  well.  He  had  seen  her  struggle 
fiercely  for  her  own  way  before,  and,  having  gained  it, 
fling  away  her  advantage  apparently  without  a  pang. 
He  had  been  hungry  and  thirsty  as  well  as  cold  and 
wet,  and  he  kept  the  girl  employed  in  ministering  to 
his  wants.  They  laughed  together  over  his  appetite 
for  bread  and  butter,  not  diminished  since  the  days 
when  he  had  swooped  upon  the  children's  thick  slices 
at  the  schoolroom  tea. 

"  If  I  go  on  like  this  in  ten  years  I  shall  be  as  fat  as 
a  pig,  I  expect,"  he  remarked  as  the  loaf  grew  less 
and  less. 

"  You'll  be  forty-seven.  It  won't  much  matter 
what  you  are  by  that  time." 

"Thank  you.     Why?" 

"  Married  and  done  with !  You  won't  expect  me 
to  take  the  least  interest  in  you  when  once  you're 
married  ?  " 

"  I  remember  your  antipathy  to  the  marriage  state. 
I  remember  how  you  flung  things  about,  and  stamped 
and  wept  when  they  told  you  Ted  Harringay  was 
married." 

He  said  the  name  naturally  enough,  and  had  never 
shunned  it.  Whatever  wound  had  been  dealt  him  by 
the  man  was  healed,  all  but  forgotten  now. 

Betty  laughed  ;  "  I  wonder  what  made  me  so  adore 
that  person.  And  he  was  a  wretch  to  me — yet  the 
very  fact  of  his  presence  in  the  place  was  an  intense 


AFTER   TEN  YEARS.  109 

happiness  I  Little  fool !  I've  still  got,  treasured  up 
somewhere  his  old  cap  and  some  bits  of  used-up 
pencils  of  his.  What  an  odd  little  idiot  I  must  have 
been,  Bill ! " 

"  I  don't  know,"  Carlyon  said.  "  I  think  there  was 
a  charm  about  him.  Even  the  people  who — who 
ought  to  have  kicked  him,  liked  him.  It  was  all 
natural  enough." 

"  I  don't  believe  in  his  charm,"  said  Betty,  wrink- 
ling her  brow  as  she  always  did  when  conversation  be- 
came retrospective.  "  Looking  back  at  him  I  see  no 
charm.  I  see  an  unscrupulous  person,  selfish  to  a  de- 
gree, lazy  and  indifferent  to  the  backbone,  with  a 
manner  supercilious  to  the  verge  of  incivility,  with  an 
unveiled  contemptuousness  of  much  that  is  dear  and 
sweet  and  sacred  in  the  minds  of  other  people.  Clever, 
of  course.  I  believe  still  that  he  could  have  been,  if 
he  had  cared,  a  splendid  artist." 

She  looked  up  as  she  spoke  at  an  oval  picture  in 
oils  on  the  wall  above  her  head — the  one  picture  in 
the  room  which,  although  unfinished,  boasted  a  frame. 
An  elf-like,  white  face,  with  haunting,  large  grey  eyes, 
looking  out  from  an  exaggerated  tangle  of  deep  red 
hair.  The  hair  filled  all  the  background  of  the  picture, 
the  eyes  with  their  resistless  appeal,  had  seemed  at 
times  to  those  who  beheld  to  fill  the  room. 

"  It's  like  you  in  an  odd,  uncanny  way,  but  it  isn't 
flattering,"  the  curate  said, "  and  it  is — uncomfortable." 

Betty  got  up  and  went  close  to  the  picture  and 
looked  deep  into  the  representation  of  her  own  eyes. 
"  People  who  come  here  cry,  •  How  hideous  ? '  "  she 
said.  "  '  That  meant  for  you  !  At  any  time  of  life  ! 
A  libel ! '  In  saying  that  they  write  themselves  down 
asses,  you  know.  Did  an  artist  come  along — but  one 


110  THE  CEDAR  STA&. 

never  does — he  would  fall  down  and  worship,  as  I 
used  to  worship  him." 

She  came  back  to  the  table  and  sat  down  :  "  Where 
is  he,  I  wonder  ?  "  she  said. 

"  His  father  and  mother  are  dead,  and  so,  you 
know,  are  hers.  Some  one  said  the  Harringays  were 
coming  back  to  Edmunsbury  to  settle  down — " 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  care  what  they  do,  do  you  ? " 
Betty  asked,  flippant  of  tone,  but  earnest  of  gaze, "  Do 
you  care  where  they  go,  or  what  they  do,  Bill  ?  " 

And  the  curate,  quiet  and  composed  beneath  her 
scrutiny,  confessed  that  to  a  certain  extent  he  did 
care,  because  he  had  once  been  fond  of  them  both  and 
thought  kindly  of  them  still,  but  that  in  the  way  he 
used  to  care  he  cared  no  longer.  He  hoped  they  were 
both  very  happy,  and  that  was  all. 

"  Then  you  may  be  quite  sure  they  aren't,"  Betty 
assured  him  with  calm  conviction.  "  '  Why  ? '  Be- 
cause Yiolet  was  an  affectionate  namby-pamby,  bound 
to  develop  into  a  fretful,  exacting,  jealous  woman.  She 
was  always  an  irritating,  witless  creature,  you  remem- 
ber, and  he'll  have  frightened  out  of  her  what  glimmer 
of  intellect  she  had,  long  ago.  And  he  hates  a  fool. 
Because  her  beauty  was  simply  the  beauty  of  youth  and 
delicate  coloring,  and  won't  stand  the  wear  of  years 
and  tears.  And  he  worships  beauty.  No.  Wherever 
they  are,  they  aren't  happy.  And  I'm  glad  of  it." 

Presently  Peter  came  in,  and  greeted  the  curate  in 
his  stolid  way. 

"  If  Peter  found  the  Bishop  of  London  having  tea 
with  me  in  the  flat  he  wouldn't  show  the  smallest 
emotion,"  Betty  declared.  "  If  Albert  Edward,  Prince 
of  Wales,  the  Princess  of  Wales,  and  all  the  Royal 
Family  were  to  greet  him  on  his  return  from  the 


AFTER   TEN  YEARS.  Ill 

office,  he  wouldn't  take  the  interest  he  does  in  the  moth 
on  the  window-pane,  or  the  spider's  nest  in  the  corner." 

"  Oh,  give  us  the  loaf  and  don't  jaw,"  Peter  said, 
and  she  handed  him  the  two  crusts  remaining. 

"  Bill  is  responsible  for  the  rest,"  she  said,  and 
Peter  munched  at  his  crusts  uncomplainingly. 

"  I've  been  to  the  Natural  History  Museum — that's 
why  I'm  late,"  he  said.  "  I  was  right  about  the  moth 
young  Armytage  gave  me,  Betty.  I  identified  it  at 
once.  It's  the  '  lobster.'  We  must  be  careful  how 
we  set  him.  And  by  the  way,  you're  all  right,  Betty. 
They  think  a  heap  of  you  at  the  Walker." 

"  Absurd  1  "  said  Betty,  her  face  kindling,  her  eyes 
telegraphing  excited  questionings. 

"  Fact,  Johnson — I  told  you  your  professor  visits 
with  Johnson's  people — Johnson  missed  you  at  the 
Walker  to-day  and  he  came  on  to  me — wanted  to 
come  home  here,  but  I  shook  him  off.  The  professor 
says  you've  got  a  lot  of  cleverness — you're  promising 
— you'll  do  something.  Johnson  says  you  mustn't 
take  to  heart  the  professor's  dropping  down  on  you 
— it's  his  system.  Those  that  have  got  grit  hold  on 
and  are  the  better  for  it — it  clears  off  the  feeble  sort." 

Betty's  face,  with  the  glow  of  gratified  triumph 
shining  through  was  wonderful.  The  curate  gazed  at 
it  as  if  he  saw  it  for  the  first  time. 

"  Oh,  Peter  !  Do  you  really  believe  it  ?"  she  said, 
breathing  the  words  in  a  soft  rapture.  Her  eyes 
turned  from  her  brother's  face  to  Carlyon's — and  the 
rapture  died  out,  the  glow  faded,  the  face  became  pale 
and  tired  again,  the  voice  lifeless.  "  It's  of  no  use, 
Peter,"  she  said.  "  I've  got  to  give  it  all  up,  our 
father  is  ill,  and  has  sent  for  me,  I'm  going  home  with 
Bill  Carlyon  to-morrow.'' 


112  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 


CHAPTER  II. 

A   HOME-COMTNQ. 

THEY  had  the  railway  carriage  for  the  greater  part 
of  the  way  to  themselves.  Betty's  face  was  as  the 
ghost  of  the  face  the  curate  had  seen  for  a  few  mo- 
ments yesterday,  and  she  was  for  a  long  time  very 
quiet. 

"  Of  how  little  importance  are  our  resolves,  our 
wishes,  the  things  that  alone  seem  to  us  to  make  life 
endurable  in  this  most  destable  world !  "  she  said 
once.  "  Yesterday  morning  I  was  saying  to  myself 
that  I  supposed  I  should  live  in  a  flat  with  Peter 
for  the  rest  of  my  natural  life — or  in  a  flat  with 
Johnson — " 

The  curate  opened  astonished  eyes.  "  With  John- 
son ?  " 

"  He  is  at  the  Walker  school,  and  he  is  also  a  friend 
of  Peter's.  He  comes  to  see  us  a  good  deal.  I  think 
he  was  beginning  to  fall  in  love  with  me." 

"It's  quite  time  you  came  home,  then,"  the  curate 
said,  and  banged  down  the  window  impressively. 

"  It  did  no  harm,"  said  Betty. 

"  You  mean  you  have  not  fallen  in  love  with  John- 
son ?  " 

"No.  I  haven't  done  that.  I  am  not  quite  sure 
about  him,  even,  you  know.  But  if  he  had  asked  me, 
I  should  have  married  him.  It  would  have  taken 
me  off  Peter's  hands,  and  Johnson  and  I  could  have 
worked  together." 


A  HOME-COMINQ.  113 

"  You  can  work  very  well  at  home  without  any 
Johnson,"  said  the  curate  shortly.  He  was  appalled 
at  the  danger  which  had  been  run.  Of  what  had  they 
all  been  thinking  ?  This  Betty  was  too  precious  a 
thing  to  leave  so  lightly  guarded ! 

Once  again  in  the  course  of  the  journey  she  men- 
tioned the  hated  Johnson's  name :  "  Perhaps  he 
only  made  it  up  to  please  me,"  she  said  pensively. 
"  He  has  done  a  lot  of  quite  foolish  things  to  please 
me,  lately.  Perhaps  he  made  the  poor  professor  say 
it." 

That  this  was  more  than  likely,  the  curate  eagerly 
admitted,  and  could  barely  keep  himself  from  adding 
that  he  had  conceived  a  low  opinion  of  Johnson.  He 
could  not  tell  if  he  was  more  relieved  or  concerned  to 
find  that,  except  in  so  far  as  he  had  given  a  true 
report  or  the  reverse  of  the  professor's  dictum,  John- 
son held  no  interest  whatever  for  the  lady  who  was 
prepared  to  share  his  flat  with  him. 

As  they  drew  nearer  home,  and  the  landscape  took 
on  familiar  features,  the  Art  School,  and  all  the  hopes 
and  fears  connected  with  her  work  there,  faded  from 
Betty's  mind;  she  looked  about  her  with  a  sad  and 
tender  gaze. 

"  How  every  memory  becomes  poisoned  for  us  as  we 
go  on !  "  she  said.  "  I  remember  hearing  my  mother 
say  '  Let  them  have  a  happy  childhood  ;  whatever 
life  robs  them  of,  it  can't  rob  them  of  that.'  But  I 
can't  look  back  to  mine  without  the  cruellest  pain, 
Bill.  The  contrast  with  everything  that  now  is  pos- 
sible is  so  dreary." 

"  My  dear  child  I  At  twenty-one  how  can  you  tell 
what  is  or  is  not  possible  ?  " 

"  I  feel  like  a  ghost  coming  back  to  its  old  haunts. 
8 


114  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

I  declare  I  am  as  chill  as  a  ghost.  Feel  my  hands. 
I  wonder  if  I  shall  meet  any  more  of  the  shades — 
Peter,  in  his  Eton  jacket,  Emily,  hiding  always  be- 
hind my  skirts,  and  darling,  fat,  jolly,  little  Ian  ? 
Don't  we  sometimes  haunt  Queen  Anne's,  Bill — poor 
little  ghosts,  sending  out  faint  shouts  for  you  to  come 
and  play  ?  Do  you  sometimes  see  us  there  ?  " 

"  Often,"  Bill  said  gently,  u  oftenest  a  little  ghost, 
with  an  odd,  pale  little  face,  and  crimson  Lair,  perches 
itself  on  my  library  steps,  assures  me  her  locks  are  a 
lovely  shade  of  auburn,  and  announces  that  she 
intends  to  draw  pictures  for  Punch.''1 

Betty  listened  wistfully,  with  far-away  63*68,  "  I 
always  like  to  picture  Ian  here/'  she  said,  "  I  try  to 
forget  that  wretched  German  school,  and  those  last 
sad  months.  I  try — but  I  can't  forget — " 

"  Dear  Betty,  don't  think  about  it  now,  dear." 

"  Poor  Ian,  how  she  tried  to  be  sweet  to  them  all  I 
You  know  that  way  of  hers  for  which  I  used  to 
punish  her,  Bill — that  way  of  being  all  things  to  all 
men — of  trying  by  any  means  to  win  them.  It  was 
so  pathetic  to  see  these  small  wiles  of  hers  all  wasted 
and  misunderstood !  And  these  German  girls — they 
lied  like  the  father  of  lies  themselves,  and  the  teachers 
lied,  and  the  principal  lied,  but  when  poor  little  Ian 
was  found  out  in  one  of  her  innocentest,  most  trans- 
parent fibs — oh,  the  wickedness  of  it,  the  terrible 
measures  that  had  to  be  adopted  to  drive  out  the 
lying  spirit  1  " 

"  You  used  to  be  pretty  Lard  on  that  propensity 
yourself,  Bett}'." 

"  I  wasn't  then.  I  raged.  I  said  that  they  were 
all  liars,  and  that  we  were  taught  to  lie.  I  said  that 
if  we  did  not  lie,  we  could  not  exist  in  such  a  wretched 


A   HOME-COMING.  115 

den.  When  Ian  fell  ill,  they  would  not  let  me  see 
her.  No  one  but  the  nurse  was  allowed  to  go  near 
her.  But  I  went,  I  went  in  the  dead  of  night,  and 
the  nurse  was  asleep — but  not  Ian.  They  said  she 
had  not  been  conscious — she  was  conscious  enough  to 
break  one's  heart.  She  spoke  about  you,  Bill,  and 
said  how  happy  you  must  be  at  home  with  Paul. 
When  the  nurse  awoke  I  would  not  be  sent  away,  and 
lau  seemed  better — and — all  at  once — she  died." 

"  Dear  child  !  All  that  is  nearly  ten  years  ago," 
Carlyon  said.  He  looked  at  her  with  kind  eyes  full 
of  pity,  and  leaned  forward  and  smoothed  and  patted 
her  hand.  "  Ten  years  !  " 

"  And  what  if  it  were  a  hundred !  "  Betty  cried, 
''  Hasn't  it  been  ?  Even  eight  hundred  years  wouldn't 
lessen  by  one  pang  the  pain  and  the  terror,  and  the 
strangeness  of  the  sorrow  that  small  spirit  had  to 
bear !  Thanks  to  Caroline.  I  don't  forget  that  it 
was  thanks  to  Caroline,  Bill." 

It  was  as  Carlyon  had  said  ten  years  ago  ;  and  in 
ten  years  much  had  happened.  The  tragedy  of  little 
lan's  death  which  had  troubled  her,  doubtless,  at  first, 
had  slipped  to  the  background  of  Mrs.  Jervois's 
mind.  There  had  been  nothing  in  that  untoward 
event  with  which  she  could  reproach  herself.  She 
had  been  deceived  in  the  desirability  of  the  first  school 
to  which  the  girls  had  been  sent,  it  was  true ;  but 
when  once  convinced  of  the  fact  that  the  children 
were  being  half  starved,  and  were  enduring  privations 
which  could  not  but  be  harmful  to  an}r  young,  grow- 
ing girls  she  almost  immediately  took  measures  to 
have  them  removed  and  more  satisfactorily  placed. 
Little  Ian  had  succumbed  too  quickly  ;  there  were, 


116  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

unfortunately,  only  two  to  benefit  by  the  change. 
The  idea  that  any  blame  in  this,  or  any  matter,  could 
rest  upon  her  head  did  not  even  occur  to  conscien- 
tious Caroline.  The  chambers  of  her  mind,  carefully 
swept  and  garnished,  were  ever  free  from  such  trouble- 
some inmates  as  self-doubt  and  remorse  and  unavail- 
ing regret.  She  went  out  into  the  hall  to  greet  the 
eldest  daughter  of  the  house,  with  every  desire  and 
intention  of  playing  as  usual  the  immaculate  part. 
She  lifted  a  cool  cheek — a  calm,  little  altered  face,  for 
Betty  to  greet.  But  Betty  raising  her  own  face  from 
the  caress  seemed  to  see  the  little  laughing  face  of 
Ian,  peeping  through  the  balusters  at  the  newcomer, 
and  turned  away  abruptly  from  her  father's  wife. 

But  in  the  interview  with  her  father  all  the  hard- 
ness died  out  of  Betty's  heart.  How  could  it  be 
otherwise  with  the  strange  familiarity  of  his  own  pa- 
thetic figure  and  its  own  surroundings  gripping  her 
heart  with  such  relentless  hand  ?  In  the  library,  the 
room  in  which  Mr.  Jervois  habitually  sat,  it  seemed 
to  Betty  that  not  a  picture  had  been  re-hung,  not  a 
book  misplaced,  hardly  a  chair  disarranged  in  all 
these  3rears.  At  any  minute,  surely,  the  door  might 
open  and  Emily  slide  in  ;  Ian,  perhaps,  was  under  the 
table,  or  peeping  through  the  curtains  pulled  across 
the  window.  On  the  hearth,  actually  in  the  flesh,  lay 
Paul  the  beloved  cat — not  altered  a  day  since  ar- 
rangements for  the  expected  advent  of  the  kittens  had 
formed  the  staple  subject  of  lan's  talk. 

It  was  this  unchangeableness  rather  than  the  change 
in  her  father's  appearance  which  suddenly  melted  the 
anger  in  Betty's  heart,  robbed  her  limbs  of  strength, 
and  sent  her  sobbing  to  her  knees,  her  face  hidden 
against  the  back  of  her  father's  old  leather  chair. 


A   HOME-COMING.  117 

He  let  her  cry  uninterrupted  for  minutes,  and  she 
could  feel  with  what  painful  effort,  his  own  tears  came 
from  the  depths  to  the  surface.  When  she  heard 
those  caught  sobbings  of  the  breath,  those  spasmodic 
clickings  in  the  throat,  she  restrained  her  own  tears, 
and  lifted  her  face. 

"  Dear  father — it  is  so  stupid  of  me — I  am  tired 
with  the  journey — and  it  is  so  long  since  I  saw  you," 
she  got  out  brokenly  in  excuse  of  her  weakness. 

"  I  know  I  am  changed,"  poor  Mr.  Jervois  said, 
swallowing  back  the  sobs  in  his  throat,  "  I  know  you 
are  weeping  for  me,  Betty,  but  you  mustn't  do  it, 
dear.  You  must  spare  me.  I'm  not  strong  enough 
for  any  emotion.  You  must  be  very  careful  not  to 
upset  me.  Things  must  be  smooth  and  pleasant 
about  me — my  child — remember  that,  dear,  I  beseech 
you — smooth  and  pleasant."  He  spoke  through 
trembling  fingers,  with  which  he  had  covered  his  face, 
and  through  his  flowing  tears.  "  I  think  I  feel  a  par- 
oxysm coming  on.  My  drops.  Quickly,  if  you 
please — my  drops." 

Of  course  Betty  knew  nothing  of  his  drops  and  had 
to  summon  her  stepmother  to  administer  them. 

"  You  must  be  very  careful  not  to  excite  your 
father,"  that  lady  said,  afterwards,  admonishing  Betty 
with  that  prim  serenity  of  tone  the  girl  remembered 
and  hated.  "  He  suffers  acutely  if  he  is  permitted  to 
excite  himself.  To  be  of  any  service  to  him,  you 
must  exercise  great  self-control  and  be  perfectly  calm." 

And  Betty  was  not  practiced  in  the  exercise  of  self- 
control,  and  was  by  nature  rather  turbulent  than 
calm. 

"  What  good  am  I  here  ?  "  she  was  before  long  in- 


118  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

quiring  reproachfully  of  the  Reverend  William  Caii- 
yon,  resuming  once  more  uncomplainingly  his  old 
role  of  martyr  to  Betty  Jervois's  moods.  "  At  my 
art  school  I  should  be  doing  some  good  to  mj-self,  and 
I  should  be  out  of  Caroline's  wa}'.  She  does  not 
leave  me  alone  with  my  father  for  an  instant.  Where 
is  the  good  of  our  both  sitting  up  to  stare  at  the  poor 
man  ?  It  would  be  less  embarrassing  to  him,  surety, 
for  Caroline  to  stare  alone.  I  may  not  talk  lest  I 
annoy,  or  excite,  or  depress  him — not  a  sound  but 
Caroline's  level  tones,  her  improving  conversation  is 
heard  in  the  room.  She  won't  trust  me  to  pour  out 
his  medicine.  If  I  hear  him  restless  in  the  night  I 
can't  go  to  him — Caroline  is  there  before  me.  I  quite 
understand  it  is  her  place — I  am  not  complaining — 
only  why  did  you  bring  me  here?  What  good 
am  I?" 

"  Couldn't  you  help  Caroline  with  the  children  ?  " 
the  curate  asked,  for  he  had  received  his  sister's  con- 
fidence on  the  subject  and  knew  how  the  land  lay  very 
well. 

"  I  detest  the  children,"  said  Betty  with  fervor. 

"  But,  my  dear  girl,  that  is  a  feeling  you  should  be 
ashamed  of." 

"  If  you  begin  to  preach,"  said  Betty  who  was  sit- 
ting on  the  sofa  in  the  little  study  at  Queen  Anne's, 
"  I  will  throw  this  cushion  at  jrour  head." 

He  was  half-leaning  against,  half-sitting  upon  the 
table  where  his  sermons  were  concocted.  The  books 
from  which  he  shamelessly  cribbed  the  gems  of 
thought,  scattered  through  those  master-pieces  lay 
around  him  in  admired  confusion.  He  had  been  in- 
terrupted in  his  literary  efforts,  but  he  did  not  appear 
to  resent  the  intrusion.  He  crossed  his  arms  on  his 


A   HOME-COMING.  119 

chest  and  looked  at  his  visitor  with  a  certain  expres- 
sion in  his  eye,  as  of  things  being  very  well  with  him 
indeed. 

"  I  am  not  afraid  of  you  nor  yonr  cushion,"  he 
announced.  "  I  am  going  to  tell  you  what  I  think. 
You  are  nearly  always  unjust — it  is  your  feminine 
privilege — I  have  never  known  you  ungenerous  be- 
fore. In  the  matter  of  these  poor  little  children —  " 
here  he  stopped  a  moment  to  catch  the  cushion  that, 
sure  enough,  came  flying  at  his  head,  "  of  whom,  you 
will  please  to  remember  that  I,  for  one,  am  very 
fond—" 

"  You  aren't !  "  said  Betty,  interrupting  him  with  a 
confident  laugh.  "  It  is  the  one  thing  that  saves  the 
situation.  If  you  were  to  them  what  you  were  to  us 
— if  3'ou  ever — ever  could  be  the  same  to  mortal  chil- 
dren again — life  and  the  world,  past  and  present, 
yourself  and  myself,  would  be  too,  too  disgusting  !  I 
should  have  done  with  all." 

"  But  then  you  were  always  a  jealous  baby,"  he  re- 
minded her,  tightening  his  arms  across  his  chest,  his 
voice  breaking  down  into  an  involuntary  tenderness, 
reminiscent,  perhaps,  of  her  baby  days. 

Betty  violently  repudiated  the  idea :  "  It  is  Caro- 
line who  is  jealous,"  she  declared.  "  Do  you  know 
that  she  hates  to  see  me  with  you  ?  That  she  watches 
iis  ?  She  even  tried  to  prevent  my  coming  here  this 
morning.  What  do  think  she  said  ?  She  said  '  Peo- 
ple would  talk.'  Imagine  trying  to  frighten  me,  Betty 
Jervois,  with  the  bogey  of  public  opinion." 

He  laughed  a  little  but  he  did  not  meeet  her  eyes. 

"  Who  are  the  '  people,'  and  what  will  they  say,  do 
you  suppose,  Bill  ?  " 

"  You  are  not  to  speak  in  that  disdainful  voice  of 


120  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

my  old  women.  They'll  probably  say  what  they  said 
in  the  old  days.  '  You're  a  spoilin'  that  little  Miss 
Betty,  sir,  that  yon  be  1 '  " 

Betty  shook  her  head.  "  It  wouldn't  be  true,"  she 
said.  She  got  up  slowly  from  the  sofa,  and  the  curate 
fetched  his  hat  to  accompany  her  through  the  meadow 
on  her  way  home.  "  You  don't  spoil  me  any  longer," 
she  went  on  regretfully.  "  I  only  wish  you  would. 
But  you  are  afraid  of  Caroline.  I  am  sorry  ;  because 
it  is  so  long  since  anyone  spoilt  me." 

"  My  modes  are  different — but  I  expect  I  spoil  you 
still,"  the  curate  said  a  little  sadly,  "  I  expect  I  shall 
spoil  }rou  to  the  end  of  the  chapter." 

And  Betty,  turning  matters  over  in  her  mind,  had 
firmly  resolved  that  he  should.  They  had  to  pass  the 
sunk  tennis-court  at  which  Carlyon  and  his  little 
friends  had  labored  so  hopefully  long  ago  :  "  You 
finished  it,  after  all,"  Betty  said,  nodding  her  head  in 
that  direction. 

"  After  all,"  he  acquiesced.  "  You  see  the  world 
didn't  come  to  an  end,  Betty.  Contrary  to  expecta- 
tion, it  went  on  much  as  usual.  And  the  court  is 
generally  in  capital  condition." 

"  I  suppose  you've  heard  the  Harringays  are  really 
expected  at  Edmundsbury  ?  some  of  the  Belton  girls 
were  over  last  week  full  of  the  prospect  of  having 
Violet  again.  For  my  part  I  hope  thej''!!  keep  her. 
I  hope  they'll  keep  them  both.  You  remember,  in 
even  my  baby  days,  I  could  not  be  civil  to  Violet  ?  " 

"  I  remember  it  well.     So  doubtless  does  she." 

"  And  as  for  her  husband  I  can  now  see  that  he  was 
detestable." 

"  Nonsense  !  "  said  the  curate.  "  Harringay  was  a 
man  all  women  liked  and  some  men  too.  I  liked  him 


A   HOME-COMING.  121 

for  one.  His  taste  and  yours  are  the  same — you  and 
be  are  very  likety  to  become  fast  friends  again  before 
the  finish." 

The  curate's  predictions  were  right  as  the  sequel 
proved,  but  other  things  came  to  pass  before  they 
were  realized. 


122  THE  CEDAR  STAR. 


CHAPTER  III. 

FRICTION. 

THAT  dread  disease  from  which  Mr.  Jervois  suf- 
fered was  slow  in  its  action.  His  weakness  increased 
daily  but  imperceptibly.  It  seemed  to  those  about 
him  that  he  suffered  more  from  depression  of  spirits 
than  from  pain  of  body. 

"  All  I  ask  for  is — peace  I  "  he  would  say,  spreading 
appealing  hands  abroad.  "  Surely,  surely  that,  for  one 
in  my  suffering  state,  is  little  to  ask.  For  pity's  sake 
let  me  have  peace  1 " 

And  the  sad  fact  was  that  where  Betty  and  her 
stepmother  foregathered  there  was  no  peace,  and  the 
fault  was  not  altogether  Caroline's. 

She  was  a  woman  with  whom  duty,  as  she  con- 
ceived it,  was  paramount,  a  most  conscientious,  care- 
ful, unbending  woman.  Where  others  did  not  see 
with  her  eyes,  she  accounted  it  to  them  for  wilful  sin. 
On  every  subject  about  which  two  opinions  were  pos- 
sible, it  was  a  foregone  conclusion  that  Betty  would 
cling  to  one  of  them  with  no  less  pertinacity  than 
that  wherewith  Caroline  would  hold  on  to  the  other. 
And  this  not  only  in  big  matters  but  in  those  of  small 
importance. 

"  You  see,  I  hate  her,"  Betty  would  explain  with 
her  embarrassing  frankness  to  Caroline's  brother. 
"  When  you  hate  a  person  you've  got  to  show  it  for 
your  self-respect's  sake,  Bill." 


FRICTION.  123 

"  My  place  is  at  your  father's  side ;  to  be  of  service 
to  me,  you  must  take  my  place  with  the  children," 
Caroline  continually  said. 

But  Betty  and  the  children  were  not  sympathetic. 

The  first  lot  of  little  Jervoises  had  been  fond  of 
animals,  had  loved  outdoor  life,  had  insisted  on  free- 
dom. The  second  liked  their  books,  and  played  mild 
games  of  draughts,  or  of  halma  for  recreation.  The 
two  eldest,  with  their  mother's  assistance,  in  their 
literary  efforts,  were  honored  little  contributors  to  the 
children's  page  of  "  The  English  Lady's  Own." 

"  Your  five  little  nephews  are  of  the  genus  prig,  in 
short,"  their  stepsister  informed  their  uncle. 

The  children  were  used  to  their  mother's  methodi- 
cal rule,  and  Betty's  careless  disregard  of  nursery 
laws,  and  her  contemptuous  disapproval  of  cherished 
tasks  was  a  surprise,  and  one  which  they  resented. 
There  were  constant  appeals  from  the  new  authority 
to  the  old : 

"  I  will  not  have  my  children  taught  to  disobey  me," 
cried  Caroline. 

"  While  I  am  with  them  I  expect  them  to  obey  me," 
Betty  retorted. 

"  For  heaven's  sake  let  me  have  peace  ! "  entreated 
the  poor  invalid  with  that  pathetic  stretching  forth  of 
his  hands. 

Betty  was  filled  with  wrath.  In  spite  of  her  refrac- 
toriness her  heart  ached  for  pity.  She  tried  in  a 
thousand  ways  to  be  of  comfort  to  her  father ;  but 
her  ways  were  never  those  that  Caroline  could  ap- 
prove. When,  after  a  temporary  absence,  the  wife 
would  return  to  the  library  to  find  the  invalid, 
wrapped  and  swallowed  in  Betty's  garments,  about  to 
steal  forth  into  the  sunshine  on  Betty's  arm,  con- 


124  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

scientiously  believing  the  exercise  bad  for  him,  the 
wife  would  dispute  his  exit. 

"  The  air  would  cheer  him  and  do  him  untold  good !  " 
Betty  would  protest. 

"  It  rained  this  morning  and  the  air  is  damp  1 " 
Caroline  would  declare. 

"  Come  along,  father,"  the  rebellious  Betty  would 
persist. 

"  Eustace,  I  entreat  }rou  not  to  run  the  risk,"  Caro- 
line would  implore. 

"  Do  what  you  like  with  me,  but  for  heaven's  sake 
don't  quarrel  over  me,"  the  hapless  victim  would  beg. 
With  his  own  hand  he  would  unwind  the  shawl  about 
his  shoulders  and  take  off  his  cap.  He  longed  for  the 
air  and  the  sunshine,  perhaps ;  and  to  hear  what  Betty 
had  to  tell  him  of  Peter  and  Peter's  friends,  and  her 
life  in  the  flat  in  Wilmington  Terrace.  But  he  knew 
that  Caroline,  his  inestimable,  most  excellent  Caro- 
line, must  have  her  own  way. 

"  I  hate  to  distress  you,  Eustace,"  Mrs.  Jervois  said 
to  her  husband,  "  but  I  must  ask  you  to  use  your  in- 
fluence with  Betty.  She  and  my  brother  are  a  great 
deal  too  much  together.  People  will  talk." 

"  Bill  ?  "  asked  the  rector,  opening  dull  e3^es  upon 
her.  "  What  possible  harm  can  Bill  do  ?  We  can't 
very  well  ask  your  brother  to  keep  away  from  the 
house,  Caroline." 

"  But  you  can  ask  Betty  to  keep  away  from  his 
house,"  cried  Caroline  with  asperity.  "  She  is  con- 
stantly running  across  to  Queen  Anne's.  She  is  not 
a  child,  remember,  any  longer,  and  my  brother  is  still 
a  young  man.  I  don't  consider  such  proceedings 
seemly,  or  even  modest,  sorry  as  I  am  to  say  so." 


FRICTION.  125 

"  You  can't  expect  me,  in  my  state  of  health,  to 
enter  into  a  controversy  with  Betty,"  the  invalid 
groaned.  "  You  know  what  a  strong  character  the 
girl  has.  It  is  Bill  who  must  take  measures,  of 
course.  I  prefer  to  leave  the  matter  in  Bill's  hands." 

Mrs.  Jervois  set  her  lips  tightly.  "  On  the  subject 
of  Betty  it  is  impossible  to  speak  to  Bill,"  she  de- 
clared. 

The  invalid  shut  his  eyes  and  demonstratively 
sighed.  "  It  is  a  little  hard — a  little  hard,  I  think, 
that  at  this  juncture  of  my  life,  I  should  be  bothered 
with  such  details !  I  am  not  long  for  this  world.  It 
is  not  for  much  I  ask,  any  more." 

"  It  is  a  pity  Betty  ever  came  home,"  Caroline  said, 
and  this  phrase,  having  been  reiterated  often  enough 
in  the  invalid's  ears,  the  clay  came,  as  Caroline  had 
known  it  would,  when  the  rector  said  :  "  Then  let 
Betty  go  back  again." 

But  Betty,  to  everyone's  surprise,  would  not  go. 
It  was  her  father,  worked  up  to  the  sticking-point  by 
his  wife,  who  at  last  gave  Betty  her  release. 

"  Go  back  to  your  work  and  to  Peter,"  he  said.  "  It 
is  dull  for  you  here,  and — I  shall  not  die  just  yet — we 
can  manage  without  you  well  enough,  Betty." 

"  But  if  you  don't  want  me,  I  want  you,  father," 
Betty  had  said.  "  I  am  your  eldest  daughter — while 
you  are  ill  my  place  is  at  your  side.  You  may  be 
quite  sure  I  will  never  leave  you." 

An  assurance  which  filled  Mr.  Jervois  with  as  much 
apprehension  as  gratitude. 

"  She  shall  not  turn  me  out  of  my  father's  house 
a  second  time,"  Betty  declared,  fierce-eyed  to  the 
curate  to  whom  she  at  once  carried  the  news  of  her 
successful  circumvention  of  her  stepmother's  plans. 


126  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

"  I  believe  my  sister  honestly  thought  you  would 
like  to  be  back  at  your  school,"  the  curate  felt  himself 
compelled  to  say,  "  with  the  beloved  professor,  you 
know,  and  with — Johnson." 

"  Your  sister  certainly  prefers  me  to  be  with  them — 
or  with  any  one — to  my  being  with  you  1  "  Betty 
cried.  At  which  Mr.  Carlyon  looked  deeply  into  the 
bowl  of  his  pipe  and  said  nothing. 

"  Do  you  know  that  you're  something  like  John- 
son ?  "  after  a  moment  of  consideration — "  not  in  look, 
at  all,  but  in  being  always  a  little  afraid  of  me,  in 
being  so  frequently  shocked." 

"  What  measures  did  you  take  to  shock  poor  John- 
son?" 

"  You  know  you  are  always  doubtful  about  what 
I'm  going  to  say  next ;  and  at  this  moment  in  your 
heart  of  hearts  you're  shocked  that  I'm  sitting  here  in 
your  room  talking  to  you,  against  Caroline's  orders. 
Isn't  that  true  ?  " 

"  It  is  true  that  I  know  I  have  to  thank  Caroline's 
prohibition  for  bringing  you  here  so  often." 

Betty  laughed,  without  denying  the  imputation. 
"  But  isn't  it  absurd  ?  "  she  asked,  "  What  possible 
harm — after  all  these  years — can  there  be  in  you  and 
me  being  friends  ?  " 

"  No  possible  harm.  All  the  good  in  the  world," 
the  curate  hastened  to  assure  her. 

Probably  Betty  had  needed  no  assurance  on  the 
point — had  only  asked  her  question  with  the  laudable 
intention  of  putting  Bill  Carlyon  "  in  a  hole."  The 
idea  of  her  old  ally  being  converted  into  her  lover 
might  have  been  slow  in  presenting  itself  but  for 
Caroline's  well-meant  precautions,  but  the  idea,  once 
suggested,  proved  by  no  means  disagreeable  to  her. 


FRICTION.  127 

She  thought  a  great  deal  on  the  subject  in  these 
dull,  and  otherwise  empty  clays,  and  asked  herself 
with  much  interest  was  it  possible  ?  Had  he  got  it  in 
him  to  fall  in  love  ?  Dared  he  ?  It  would  be  very  en- 
tertaining if  it  were  so — and  much  funnier  than  the 
Johnson  episode  at  which  Peter  and  she  had  laughed. 
To  see  his  stepmother  baffled  and  set  at  nought,  would 
add  very  much  to  the  amusement. 

"  You're  a  kind  of  a  sort  of  an  uncle,  you  know," 
she  reminded  him,  "  I  think  I  shall  call  you  '  Uncle 
Bill,'  as  the  children  do." 

But  the  curate  did  not  appear  eager  for  that  promo- 
tion, and,  except  now  and  again,  and  entirely  for  pur- 
poses of  coquetry,  Betty  did  not  remember  so  to  call 
him. 


128  THE  CEDAR  STAR. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  WE   FOUR." 

IN  such,  not  too  harmonious  fashion,  as  far  as  Betty 
Jervois  and  her  surroundings  were  concerned,  the 
slow  months  crept  away.  Christmas — such  a  melan- 
choly Christmas  ! — was  passed,  and  through  the  cold 
of  the  lengthening  days  came  now  and  again  a  bird's 
note,  a  primrose  tint  in  the  afternoon  sky,  a  scent  of 
vegetating  earth,  reminding  Betty  as  she  walked  the 
fields  and  lanes  of  Blow  Weston,  that  spring  was 
coming. 

And  before  the  spring  was  fully  here  came  Violet 
Harringay. 

She  came  in  her  carriage,  alone  in  sumptuous  state, 
garmented  in  sealskin  from  head  to  heel,  and  swathed 
in  bearskin  rugs.  In  spite  of  which  costly  protection 
from  the  keen,  frosty  air  she  was  seen  to  be  shivering 
through  all  her  frame  when  she  alighted.  She  was 
full  of  tearful  sympathy  for  the  illness  of  "  Uncle 
Eustace,"  full  of  tearful  gladness  at  the  sight  of  Betty 
in  her  strange  womanly  beauty,  filled  with  tender 
reminiscences — all  tearful. 

She  was  thinner  than  of  3rore,  and  the  familiar 
nervousness  and  timidity  of  her  bearing  bad  increased. 
The  shyness  and  shrinking  humility  which  had  been 
becoming  enough  in  a  girl  of  twenty  did  not  sit  with 
such  a  charming  grace  on  the  young  matron  of  thirty. 
The  rose  and  the  lily  tints  of  her  complexion,  which 
had  been  so  marvellously  delicate  and  distinct,  had 


"  WE  FOUK."  129 

merged  a  little,  looked  a  tiny  bit  rubbed,  perhaps  ; 
and  a  perpendicular  line  or  so  had  wrinkled  itself 
above  her  small,  straight  nose ;  the  lips  were  thinner 
and  less  red,  and  a  trifle  dragged  at  the  corners — but 
the  alteration  after  all  was  slight :  she  was  scarcely 
less  pretty,  they  all  said,  when  she  had  driven  away 
again. 

But  a  great  misfortune  had  overtaken  Edward 
Harringay's  wife — she  was  deaf. 

She  did  not  allude  to  this  infirmit3r — either  she  was 
not  aware  of  the  extent  of  her  own  misfortune,  or  the 
grief  of  it  was  too  intimate  to  bear  speaking  of. 
The  rectory  people  discovered  for  themselves  that  they 
had  to  shout  into  one  ear  to  make  themselves  audible 
— and  that  with  the  other  ear  she  could  not  hear  at 
all. 

A  very  short  intercourse  reduced  Mr.  Jervois  to 
a  condition  of  collapse.  He  lay  back  in  his  chair 
trembling,  and  with  the  tears  of  weakness  running 
down  his  face.  "  Take  her  awa}r,"  he  said  irritably  to 
Betty  who  leaned  over  him,  and  waving  a  feeble  hand 
in  his  niece's  direction.  "  Never — never,  do  you  hear  ? 
— bring  her  near  me  again." 

So  Mrs.  Harringay  happily  unconscious  of  the  effect 
she  had  produced,  had  to  be  taken  into  the  school- 
room. It  was  the  children's  walking  hour,  and  the 
room  was  deserted.  Violet  looked  round  upon  the 
familiar  place — at  the  tiny  wooden  chair,  painted 
green,  which  had  been  lan's  especial  property,  at  the 
old  piano  where  the  curate  had  practiced  his  songs — • 
and  as  she  looked,  the  tears  which  had  been  in  her 
eyes  through  that  painful  interview  with  her  uncle, 
flowed  unrestrainedly  down  her  face. 

"  So  much  has  happened  1  So  much — since  then," 
9 


130  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

she  said  apologetically,  in  the  indistinct  whispering 
voice  of  the  very  deaf. 

Betty  found  it  impossible  to  shout  sentimental  com- 
monplaces on  the  subject.  She  looked  upon  her 
cousin's  emotion  with  curious  eyes,  wondering  what 
Violet's  experiences  had  been,  trying  to  guess  at  some 
of  the  things  that  had  happened. 

Mrs.  Harringay  moved  softly  about  the  room,  striv- 
ing to  regain  her  self-possession,  fingering  with  a 
tender  touch  a  book  here,  a  writing-desk  there.  She 
opened  the  piano  and  pulled  off  her  glove  to  run  a 
hand  over  the  keys,  but  paused  before  a  sound  had 
come,  letting  her  hand  fall  noiselessly.  Presently, 
mistress  of  herself  again,  she  turned  from  the  piano 
and  went  to  sit  by  Betty's  side. 

"  How  happy  we  all  were,  dear,"  Violet  said,  "  and 
we  never  knew  it !  " 

Betty  nodded,  looking  before  her  with  tightly  set 
lips.  She  did  not  often  suffer  herself  to  think  of  that 
happiness  of  which  she  considered  she  had  been  robbed. 

"  How  I  loved  you  all !  "  Violet  whispered  on.  "  I 
thought  little  lan's  death  would  have  broken  my 
heart.  You  must  tell  me  all  about  her  death  some 
day,  Betty." 

Betty's  lips  set  tighter  ;  she  shook  her  head. 

"  Did  you  know  that  my  little  girl  also  died  ?  "  Vio- 
let inquired  after  a  pause.  "  Would  you  like  to  know 
her  name  ?  '  Janet,  Emily,  Elizabeth,'  after  you  three. 
I  should  have  called  her  Ian  if  she  had  lived.  I  have 
never  had  another  child,  Betty." 

"  Are  jrou  sorry  ? "  Betty  shouted  to  her.  "  Is  Mr. 
Harringay  sorry  ?  " 

"  Ted  ?     I  don't  know.     He  never  told  me." 

"  How  funny ! "  said  Betty,  with  considering 


"WE  FOUR.1'  131 

upon  her  cousin's  face.  She  gazed  at  the  sweet-look- 
ing wife,  trying  to  picture  the  man  who  was  her 
husband  shouting  into  the  poor  deaf  ear  ;  feeling  her 
own  ancient  interest  in  him  revive,  quickening  her 
speculations  as  to  what  he  thought  of  many  things. 

"  Urn-m-m-m  ? "  Violet  inquired,  drawing  out  the 
interrogation  in  a  slowly  ascending  scale,  and  anx- 
iously advancing  the  more  serviceable  ear,  "  What  did 
you  say,  dear  Betty?  " 

"  I  said,  '  How  funny  ! '  "  said  Betty,  with  a  little 
shame  of  the  inappropriate  phrase. 

Violet  gave  the  sweet  vague  smile  with  which  she 
always  greeted  any  remark  whose  drift  she  did  not 
understand.  She  looked  ve^  wistfully  into  Betty's 
face. 

"  Ted  used  to  say  you  would  be  a  beauty.  I  wonder 
if  he'd  think  you  are,"  she  said. 

u  I  wonder !  "  Betty  laughed.  "  He'd  better  come 
to  see.  Why  didn't  he  come  ?  I  remember  him  very 
well." 

"  My  dear,  he  is  not  at  Edmundsbury  !  I  left  him 
in  Paris.  He  could  not  quite  determine  if  to  stay  on 
there  for  a  time.  He  has  been  all  over  the  world 
since  you  saw  him,  Betty." 

"  And  you  with  him  ?  "  Betty  enquired. 

"  And  you  with  him?  "  she  repeated.  She  put  her 
question  first  to  one  ear  and  then  to  the  other.  As 
she  became  better  acquainted  with  Mrs.  Harringay, 
she  learnt  that  the  pathetic  vague  smile  with  which 
that  lady  answei'ed  a  remark  to  which  she  did  not  wish 
to  reply  was  not  alwaj's  a  sign  she  had  not  heard  it. 

"  Does  he  paint  still  ?  "  Betty  asked.  At  which  in- 
quiry Violet  kindled. 

"  He  paints  when  he  is  inclined,"  she  said.    "  If  he 


132  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

wished  it  he  could  make  a  name  as  a  painter,  Betty. 
In  Paris  he  has  met  with  the  greatest  appreciation." 

"  How  delightful  that  must  be  1  "  Betty  said  with 
shining  eyes,  her  face  aglow.  "  Tell  him  to  come  here 
— can't  you,  Violet  ? — I  should  like  to  hear  about  his 
pictures." 

The  color  came  creeping  into  Mrs.  Harringay's 
face.  "  I  was  afraid  that  perhaps  his  coming  here 
might  be  a  little  awkward,  a  little  unpleasant,"  she 
whispered. 

Betty  gazed  at  her  cousin's  blushes  with  a  certain 
angry  contempt.  "  Do  you  mean  Bill — ?"  she  asked, 
"  Bill  Carlyon  ?  He  often  says  how  much  he  liked 
Mr.  Harringay  and  how  he  hopes  to  meet  him  again." 

And  at  that  moment,  as  it  happened,  the  door 
opened  and  the  curate  came  in. 

He  had  heard  of  Violet's  presence  in  the  house,  and 
he  came  across  the  room  to  meet  his  old  love  without 
a  trace  of  self-consciousness  or  embarrassment.  Betty 
watched  him  keenly.  If  he  had  quivered  or  quailed 
in  that  moment,  if  he  had,  by  the  tremor  of  an  eyelid, 
justified  the  blushes  on  Violet's  face,  she  felt  that  she 
would  never  have  forgiven  him.  As  it  was,  her  heart 
swelled  with  gratification  and  pride  in  her  friend.  It 
was  a  boy  upon  whom  that  insult  had  been  put,  it  was 
a  man,  Betty  told  herself,  who  avenged  himself  by 
showing  that  it  was  forgotten. 

She  sat  apart  for  a  few  minutes,  for  Violet  only 
heard  remarks  specially  addressed  to  herself,  and 
general  conversation  was  impossible,  and  looked  at 
the  picture  in  her  memory  of  the  stripling — kind  and 
sweet-natured  always,  but  unfinished,  unfurnished, 
often  awkward — whom  Violet  had  thrown  over  and 
the  big  fine  looking  man  before  her,  who,  with  easy 


"  WE  FOUR.'  133 

self-possession  and  that  habitual  charming  courtesy 
which  is  the  outward  expression  of  a  good  heart,  was 
smiling  into  Violet's  face. 

How  glad  he  seemed  to  see  this  Violet  who  had 
played  him  false — who  was  nothing  to  him  any  more 
but  a  part  of  the  dear  days  when,  as  it  appeared  to 
him  now,  they  had  all  been  children  together!  The 
small  blue  eyes  wont  to  disappear  almost  in  the 
puckers  of  his  jolly,  florid  face,  when  he  laughed,  were 
leaning  with  all  their  weight  of  kindness  and  good- 
will upon  the  lady  before  him.  That  old  jealousy  of 
the  Violet  she  had  despised  stirred  uneasily  in  Betty's 
heart  as  she  looked.  She  crossed  the  room  and  stood 
at  his  side. 

Violet  looked  up  at  her  with  her  wistful,  affectionate 
gaze : 

"  Has  she  not  become  wonderful,  this  little  Betty  we 
used  to  know  ?  "  she  asked. 

And  almost  reluctantly,  it  seemed,  the  curate  turned 
to  the  girl  b'eside  him,  and  there  was  that  in  the  gaze 
of  the  blue  eyes  as  they  met  hers  that  made  Betty's 
heart  thump  for  a  moment  or  so  within  her  breast. 

The  evenings  were  the  rector's  easiest  and  pleasant- 
est  times.  The  sedative  he  took  would  begin  to  affect 
him  agreeably  by  then,  the  extreme  depression  was 
lightened,  the  nerves  became  tranquilized,  something 
of  the  enjoyment  of  innumerable  evenings  of  happier 
days  would  be  his  as  he  smoked  the  half-pipe  which 
was  all  he  could  manage  now,  and  listened  to  William 
Carlyon's  desultory  talk.  But  the  visit  of  the  deaf 
and  emotional  Violet  had  upset  the  invalid,  and  the 
evening  of  the  day  she  appeared  was  less  pleasant  than 
usual,  and  the  rector  the  earlier  inclined  for  bed. 


134  THE  CEDAR  STAR. 

When  the  curate  had  helped  the  poor  man  upstairs 
on  his  arm,  Caroline  following  close  behind,  watchful 
of  every  weary,  shuffling  step,  Bill  Carlyon  came 
down  again  and  made  for  the  schoolroom  door. 

Arrived  there,  he  paused  for  a  minute  with  his 
hand  on  the  lock.  Silence  within  :  the  children  gone 
to  bed ;  Betty  alone.  The  days  were  past  when  he 
went  carelessly  into  that  presence,  or  even  with  an 
unmixed  gladness.  To  talk  to  Betty  in  the  old  vein 
now  had  become  something  of  an  effort  to  him.  Once 
or  twice  he  had  felt  unequal  to  that  effort,  and  had 
gone  his  way  without  seeking  her.  He  was  undecided 
if  to  do  so  now,  letting  his  prudence  and  his  heart's 
desire  argue  the  matter  out  as  he  stood  upon  the  mat. 

But  she  had  known  his  step  as  he  had  crossed  the 
hall,  his  touch  upon  the  door. 

"  That  you,  Bill  ?  I  want  you.  Come  in,"  she 
ordered,  settling  the  question  for  him  in  her  per- 
emptory way. 

"  What  were  you  doing  out  there,  fidgeting  with 
the  door-handle  ?  "  she  demanded  suspiciously.  "  I've 
been  waiting  for  you  here  for  ages — and  there  you 
stood  making  up  your  mind  if  to  come  in  or  to  escape 
from  me  as  you  did  the  other  night !  I  haven't  for- 
given yon  for  it.  Now  I  I  am  dying  to  know  what 
you  think  of  her  ?  " 

"  Of  whom  ?  "  the  curate  asked.  He  joined  her  on 
the  hearth-rug,  and  stood  beside  her  there. 

"  Of  the  old  love — the  potent  love — the  love  that 
was  lost!  'Tis  the  hopeless  are  the  faithful,  eh,  Bill? 
I  suppose  you  were  shedding  dreadfully  briny  inside 
tears  while  you  talked  to  her?" 

"  So  long  as  none  escaped  over  my  manly  cheek  to 
yex  her — " 


"  WE  FOUR."  135 

"  I  did  not  see  one.  You  have  not  told  me  what 
you  thought." 

"  I  thought  her  a  very  sweet  and  tired-looking  lady." 

"  Conversation  with  her  was  always  difficult,  wasn't 
it  ?  It's  impossible  now." 

"Oh,  no;  not  that." 

"  She  told  me  her  child  was  dead  and  I  said  it  was 
funny.  After  I  had  repeated  it  once  or  twice,  it 
seemed  to  be  such  an  inappropriate  thing  to  say." 

"  It  was  hardly  so  judicious  and  well  thought  out 
as  one  could  wish." 

"  Oh,  how  sick  to  death  I  expect  he  is  of  her  1 " 

"  Good  gracious,  my  dear  child !  A  man  wouldn't 
get  sick  of  his  wife  because  such  a  misfortune  had  be- 
fallen her  I  He  would  care  for  her  all  the  more — " 

"  You  might,  perhaps.  Ted  Harringay  wouldn't. 
(And  come  down  out  of  the  pulpit,  Bill.  I  won't 
have  you  there  when  you  talk  to  me).  Since  seeing 
her  I  seem  to  remember  all  about  her  husband.  If 
she  had  a  dozen  ears  instead  of  only  half  a  one,  he 
would  be  sick  of  her  all  the  same.  I  know  exactly 
how  she  gets  on  his  nerves  and  irritates  him.  I  want 
to  SRC  him  again,  Bill." 

"  We'll  get  him  over,"  the  curate  said. 

"  Yes.  t  Fetch  me  down  the  moon  at  the  same  time, 
will  you  please?"  Betty  laughed.  She  laughed,  but 
she  looked  in  Carlyon's  face  with  much  kindness,  and 
then  she  sighed,  and  turning,  she  leaned  her  head  on 
the  tall  mantelpiece,  and  looked  in  the  fire. 

That  mantelpiece  had  received  several  coats  of 
varnish  since  Caroline's  reign  had  begun,  but  it  was 
still  an  eyesore  to  that  exemplary  housewife,  having 
been  carved,  and  chipped,  and  cut  by  the  penknives 
of  the  little  Jervoises  from  their  earliest  days.  lu 


136  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

the  centre  was  a  hole  where  Betty  remembered  an 
iron  hook  from  which  had  been  wont  to  dangle  the 
apple  Ian  had  loved  to  roast,  sitting  to  watch  it 
smoke,  and  spit,  and  burn,  in  her  little  green  chair  be- 
fore the  fire.  On  each  side,  at  intervals  from  very 
near  the  fender,  the  children's  names  and  initials  had 
been  carved,  and  various  crude  representations  of  the 
pets  which  had,  each  for  its  period,  reigned  in  their 
hearts.  The  cross  beam  at  the  top  was  ornamented 
with  a  more  ambitious  effort,  which  had  occupied 
Betty  for  the  greater  part  of  two  wet  afternoons. 
The  work  was  entitled  "  We  Four,"  and  represented 
the  rectory  children,  in  acute  profile,  filing  down  a 
straight  line  in  the  direction  of  a  primitive  dwelling- 
place,  boasting  one  window,  some  graduated  lines 
beneath  it  indicating  steps,  a  large  chimney,  and  no 
door. 

Since  Betty's  return,  to  the  dismay  of  the  younger 
family  of  Jervoises,  she  had  carefully  picked  out  the 
varnish  from  this  work  of  art,  and  also  from  a  carving 
of  Paulie  she  had  made  by  request  on  a  day  when  she 
and  Ian  had  been  friends. 

But  she  was  not  thinking  of  these  early  specimens 
of  genius  now  :  "  There  is  one  advantage  in  having 
to  deal  with  a  deaf  person,  there  can  be  no  secrets," 
she  said.  "  I  learned  one  of  yours  to-day,  Bill,  through 
the  agency  of  Violet's  deafness.  And  I  would  rather 
have  learned  it  from  you." 

The  curate  looked  down  at  her  bent  head  with  a 
little  uneasiness. 

"  It  is  that  at  my  father's  death  you  will  be  here — 
and  Caroline  and  the  children  with  you.  I  heard 
Caroline  shouting  the  fact  triumphantly  in  Violet's 
ear." 


"  WE  FOUR."  137 

"  I  have  always  known  I  was  to  have  the  next 
presentation,"  he  said.  "  You  aren't  sorry,  Betty  ? 
You  would  rather  have  me  in  the  old  place  than  a 
stranger  ?  " 

But  Betty  was  silent. 

"  You  know,"  he  said  bringing  out  the  words  with 
difficulty,  "  that  you — that  I — "  and  there  his  voice 
miserably  failing  him,  he  stopped. 

"  You  mean  that  while  you  have  a  roof  above  you — 
that  kind  of  thing?  I  know.  No  thank  you,  Bill. 
When  once  my  father  is  dead  I  don't  breathe  the 
same  air  with  Caroline.  You  are  welcome  to  her  and 
her  children  !  As  for  me  it  will  be  good-bye  to  Blow 
"Weston.  It  will  be  quite  the  finish,  Bill." 

She  pointed  to  the  carving  on  the  mantelpiece. 
"  Look,  there  we  are, '  we  four  '  I  charge  you  to  pre- 
serve that  memorial,  to  keep  it  safe  from  Caroline's 
improving  hand  for  ever.  Look  at  Peter  in  the  dig- 
nity of  his  first  pair  of  trousers.  Observe  the  exag- 
gerated rotundity  of  little  lan's  calves,  and  the  entire 
absence  of  calf  in  the  attenuated  Emily.  See  the  pains 
I  took  with  my  own  fac-simile  !  I  was  always  anx- 
ious to  do  justice  to  my  own  charms.  That  is  Queen 
Anne's,  do  you  see  ?  I  remember  Peter  giving  a  fine 
realistic  touch  by  rubbing  in  coal-dust  above  the  chim- 
ney for  smoke.  You  are  there  behind  the  window, 
Bill,  you  were  always  somewhere  near  at  hand  for  me. 
You  don't  appear  in  the  carving,  but  yon  loomed 
large  in  the  artist's  imagination,  you  may  be  sure. 
You  can  picture  yourself  cudgelling  your  brain  over 
your  precious  sermon.  You  get  up  to  scold  us,  to 
send  us  away,  but — how  we  must  have  bored  you, 
Bill !  But  we  never  knew  and — " 

Her  voice  trembled  and  she  stopped. 


138  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

"  Poor  little  souls !  "  she  began  again  in  a  firmer 
tone,  u  poor  little  '  We  Four  '  " —  And  then  quite 
unexpectedly  to  herself,  the  tears  which  were  so  rare 
with  her,  rained  from  her  eyes,  she  bent  her  face 
down  upon  the  hands  that  held  to  the  mantel-shelf, 
and  cried  there. 

"  Don't !  "  said  the  curate,  standing  very  upright, 
looking  straight  before  him  into  space. 

"  Don't !  "  he  repeated,  looking  down  upon  her,  his 
hand  timidly  hovering  about  her  hair. 

"  Don't !  "  he  implored  in  a  choking  whisper,  his  arm 
holding  her  fast,  his  lips  upon  her  cheek. 

"  This  is  not  my  little  Betty  of  the  old  days — this 
is  not  what  I  felt  for  her.  This  is  my  future  wife — 
more  than  my  very  life —  You  understand,  dar- 
ling ?  You  are  not  angry — or  sorrj'  ?  " 

One  of  his  hands  lay  close  to  her  face  on  the  mantel- 
board,  she  moved  her  head  ever  so  little,  and  let  her 
lips  touch  that  hand.  And  when,  a  second  later,  she 
lifted  her  face,  and  moved  free  of  his  encircling  arm, 
the  curate  of  Blow  Weston,  if  he  had  known  it,  had 
lived  through  the  one  perfectly  blissful  moment  of 
his  life. 

"  All  this  is  absurd,  you  know,  Bill,"  she  was  say- 
ing presently,  looking  solemnly  across  at  him  from  the 
armchair  into  which  she  had  retreated — poor  Betty 
who  never  tasted  the  triumphs  of  the  successful,  who 
in  the  moment  of  the  victory  for  which  she  had 
striven  was  ever  stricken  with  remorse  that  she  had 
fought  at  all,  with  ruefulest  pity  for  the  defeated. 
•"*'  There  is  Caroline,  you  know.  We  had  forgotten 
Caroline  and  the  children." 


"  WE  FOUR."  139 

"  What  are  they  to  me  compared  to  you,  do  you 
suppose  ?  "  the  curate  asked,  his  voice  shaken  with 
the  joy  that  he  might  say  it. 

"  But  they  are  there  all  the  same.  We  can't  raise 
hopes  in  people's  minds  we  don't  fulfil.  I  heard  her 
shouting  to  Violet  the  joy  that  it  was  to  her  not  to 
have  to  leave  the  rectory.  She  was  asking  for  a 
contribution  to  her  boot-club.  She  said  it  was  a 
consolation  to  her  to  know  that  it  was  a  good  work 
which  she  could  still  carry  on.  She  must  not  be 
separated  from  her  boot-club,  Bill." 

u  Oh,  her  boot-club  ?  "  said  Bill,  with  natural  im- 
patience. "  There  are  other  things  I  should  like  to 
talk  to  you  about  to-night.  Do  you  know  I  had 
made  up  my  mind — almost — never  to  tell  you  how 
diferent  everj'thing  was — how  I  felt  ?  I  thought 
you  would  be  so  terribly  surprised — angry — dis- 
gusted. Were  you  surprised,  Betty  ?  " 

"  Not  a  bit,"  said  Betty  with  composure,  "  I  knew 
exactly  how  you  felt.  I  wanted  you  to  tell  me." 

He  wondered  did  she  know,  had  she  any  remote 
conception.  He  would  have  liked  to  question,  to  pro- 
test, to  proclaim.  But  he  looked  at  Betty,  sitting 
serious  mistress  of  herself,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
hearth-rug,  calmly  proposing  the  throwing  away  of 
her  own  and  his  happiness  for  the  benefit  of  Caroline 
and  the  boot-club,  and  he  desisted. 

She  shook  her  head  at  him  as  she  met  his  eyes. 
"  We  must  be  sensible  and  give  it  up,  you  know,"  she 
said. 

The  folly  of  this  speech  did  not  call  for  serious 
treatment.  He  went  to  her  and  sat  on  the  arm  of 
her  chair,  and,  with  a  hand  beneath  her  chin,  turned 
up  her  face  to  him,  the  rebellious,  tantalizing,  en- 


140  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

chanting  face,  that  it  seemed  to  him  he  had  loved 
with  passion  since  the  world  began !  Her  lips 
trembled  into  a  smile  as  lie  looked  at  them. 

"  I  love  people  to  love  me,  Bill,"  she  said. 

"  People  ?  Johnson  and  one  or  two  others,  perhaps 
— and  me  ?  " 

"  I  was  never  quite  sure  about  Johnson,"  she  said 
musingly,  "  and  there  was  no  one  else." 

"  And  you  prefer  me  to  Johnson  ?  " 

He  took  her  answer  for  granted,  and  pressed  her 
round  white  cheek  against  his  clerical  waistcoat  in 
gratitude,  and  asked  her  to  tell  him  that  she  was 
happy. 

She  asked  the  question  of  herself  with  a  little 
surprise.  Happy  ?  Was  this  happiness  ?  She  had 
wanted  Bill  to  love  her  in  this  way — Bill,  who  was  the 
dearest  and  best  in  all  the  world — and  he  loved  her, 
but — 

She  pushed  him  away  from  her  and  lifted  her 
head  in  a  sudden  disappointment  and  impatience  with 
herself,  with  him,  with  life.  "  What  a  selfish  beast  I 
should  be  if  I  could  be  happy  !  "  she  said,  then  pres- 
ently repented  and  touched  the  waistcoat  with  her 
cheek  again.  "  If  there  were  nothing  in  the  world  but 
you  for  me  and  I  for  you,  if  I  had  no  memory  and  no 
faithfulness,  and  no  natural  affection,  then  I  could  be 
happy,"  she  said. 

"  No  one  is  to  know  of  this,"  she  told  him  later. 
"  This  is  our  secret  remember,  Bill.  I  will  not  have 
my  father  troubled." 

"  He  is  fond  of  me,"  Bill  reminded  her.  "  He  would 
be  pleased,  Betty." 

"  She  would  worry  him  to  death.  You  know  how 
she  can  harp  persistently  on  one  string.  She  will 


"  WE  FOUE."  141 

hate  the  project — she  would  make  my  father  hate  it — 
she  might  make  me  hate  it  too." 

"  Betty !  " 

"  She  would  be  thinking  of  fresh  plans  for  herself 
and  the  children  instead  of  my  father  and  his  comfort. 
And — to  talk  of  marriage  to  a  man  who  is  dying  I 
Promise.  That  is  her  step — in  another  minute  she 
will  be  routing  me  out.  Promise,  Bill." 

"  A  kiss  for  the  promise." 

41  The  promise  for  a  kiss." 

"  I  promise — anything !  " 

But  he  did  not  get  his  reward.  He  was  always  a 
poor  hand  at  a  bargain,  giving  more  than  was  re- 
quired of  him,  and  getting  less  than  nothing  in  re- 
turn. 

"  I  thought  that  you  liked  to  devote  Friday  evening 
to  your  sermon,  Bill,"  Caroline  said,  looking  from 
Betty,  poker  in  hand,  on  her  knees,  before  the  fire,  to 
the  curate  perched  on  the  arm  of  an  empty  chair. 

"  Is  this  Friday,"  Bill  asked,  a  little  sheepishly.  In 
that  blissful  clime  which  he  had  for  a  period  inhab- 
ited, he  had  forgotten  the  foolish  arbitrary  limitations 
of  a  poorer  world. 

"  If  we  had  only  remembered  I  might  have  been 
helping  him  to  write  it  1 "  said  Betty  brandishing  the 
poker.  "  It  is  my  opinion  I  could  write  a  far  better 
sermon  than  Bill." 

Caroline  was  too  tired  to  smile  even  if  she  had  ap- 
proved of  the  flippant  tone.  "  Have  you  mended  the 
stockings  as  I  asked  you  ?  "  she  inquired. 

Of  course  Betty  had  not  mended  them.  Nurse  had 
said  it  was  not  necessary,  and  Bill  had  wanted  her  to 
talk  to  him  and — 


142  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

But  Caroline  had  turned  with  dignity  from  such 
lame  excuses  and  had  gone  in  offended  majesty  from 
the  room  in  search  of  the  stocking  basket. 

"  Bill,"  said  Betty,  solemnly  regarding  the  door 
through  which  her  stepmother  had  passed.  "  If  I 
were  not  in  a  position  to  nurse  a  big  healthy  grudge 
against  Caroline  I  should  die  of  emptiness.  My 
hatred  of  your  sister  is  a  great  resource.  If  I  should 
oust  her  from  her  home,  in  place  of  cherishing  the 
feeling  that  she  has  ousted  me,  my  chief  occupation 
in  life  would  be  gone. 

Mrs.  Jervois  was  looking  very  fagged,  weary,  and 
worn  when  her  brother  went  in  to  say  good  night. 

"  Why  don't  you  put  all  that  away  ? "  he  said 
gently,  pointing  to  the  stocking  basket.  "  You  are 
evidently  in  want  of  rest." 

"  It  is  so  little  I  ask  of  Betty,"  said  Caroline,  bit- 
terly. "  You  see  how  she  refuses  to  help  me  even  in 
such  matters  as  these  !  and  you  encourage  her,  Bill. 
For  her  own  sake,  dear,  I  wish  you  would  sometimes 
say  a  word  of  reproof." 

"  You  have  never  understood  Betty,"  Bill  said,  lift- 
ing up  his  head.  "  You  have  never  looked  below  the 
surface  of  her.  If  you  did  you  would  find,"  he  was 
on  the  point  of  saying,  "  how  adorable  she  is,"  but 
out  of  consideration  for  Caroline's  feelings,  he  sub- 
stituted a  less  disturbing  phrase,  "  — you  would  find 
her  one  of  the  faithfullest,  truest-hearted  women  in 
the  world." 

"  With  all  my  soul  I  pity  the  man  who  marries 
her,"  said  Caroline.  She  flushed  as  she  said  it,  and 
for  such  a  good  creature,  there  was  a  decided  touch  of 
acrimony  in  her  tone. 


"  WHERE  ARE  THE  SPRINGS  OF  LONG  AGOf"  143 


CHAPTER  V. 

"WRERE   ARE   THE   SPRINGS   OP  LONG    AGO?" 

THE  spring  was  a  fortnight  nearer,  but  it  seemed,  as 
March  approached,  that  skies  had  grown  greyer, 
winds  more  unkind. 

Betty  took  her  stepbrothers  along  the  highroad 
that  led  to  Edmundsbury  for  their  morning's  airing. 
It  was  an  unlovely,  uninteresting  scene,  but,  thanks  to 
the  corners  of  the  hedges  and  the  scarcity  of  the 
trees,  the  walking  here  was  better  than  in  the  muddy 
lanes,  or  the  grey  rain-laden  fields  where  were  Betty's 
favorite  haunts,  and  Caroline  wisely  insisted  on  her 
offspring  promenading  there. 

"  Oh,  what  a  winter  !  "  Betty  sighed  impatiently  as 
they  trudged  along.  "  Come  along,  Carly.  If  we 
crawl  like  this  we  shall  sink  in  the  mud  and  never  be 
heard  of  again.  Oh,  what  an  unending  winter  1  I 
can't  even  remember  when  the  sun  shone  last.  There 
used  not  to  be  such  dark  miserable  ages  of  days  when 
I  was  young,  children." 

"  What  were  the  days  like  then  ?  "  Gussy  demanded. 
He  had  an  insatiable  love  of  asking  questions  and  was 
always  the  one  to  keep  by  Betty's  side,  while  his  little 
brothers,  wrapped  in  their  little  great-coats,  wool-com- 
forters, muffettees  and  gaiters  of  their  mother's  manu- 
facture, dragged  dejectedly  in  the  rear. 

"  Oh,  there  was  sunshine  and  flowers ;  and  the  birds 
sang  always — always  !  " 


144  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

"  Do  you  wish  they'd  make  haste  and  come  again  ?  " 
the  youth  inquired. 

"  They  won't  come  again — ever." 

"  I  fink  so,"  said  Gussy,  nodding  his  head  with 
superior  wisdom.  "  'Cause  my  mamma  told  me  when 
the  flowers  came  again  my  papa  would  be  dead.  I 
don't  think  they'll  be  long  now." 

He  was  quite  cheerful,  even  hopeful  on  the  subject. 
His  papa  was  a  person  very  little  known  to  him  and 
he  had  never  hungered  for  a  closer  acquaintance. 

"  Were  you  a  nice  little  girl  ? "  he  inquired,  wishing 
to  pursue  the  subject  of  Betty's  experiences. 

"  Yes,  very  nice." 

"  I  don't  fink  you  were,"  he  dissented,  "  'cause  you 
aren't  velly  nice  now.  And  my  mamma  says  all  nice 
boys  and  girls  keeps  nice  always." 

"  Your  mamma  is  not.  unfortunately  for  her,  in  a 
position  to  give  an  opinion,"  said  Betty  oracularly. 
"  Your  mamma  never  was  a  child." 

The  assertion  did  not  appear  so  wild  a  one  to 
Gussy's  limited  understanding.  It  required  a  greater 
effort  of  imagination  to  conceive  of  Caroline  in  the 
stage  of  naughtiness,  helplessness,  ignorance,  than  to 
picture  her  born  full-grown  with  serious,  worn  fea- 
tures, fully  clothed  in  omniscience  and  indisputable 
power. 

"  I  wished  I'd  been  a  born  a  grown-up,"  was  all  he 
said,  and  lost  himself  for  a  brief  time  in  contemplation 
of  the  joys  of  an  existence  where  unlimited  supplies 
of  sweeties  from  the  village  shop — temptations  to 
whose  seductions  he  had  only  given  way  since  Betty's 
arrival  on  the  scene — should  be  his,  together  with  an 
uninterrupted  festival  of  lying  before  the  nursery  fire, 
broken  by  no  task  of  work,  or  promenade,  or  bath,  or 


"  WHERE  ARE  THE  SPRINGS  OF  LONG  AGO?11  145 

prayer-making,  or  church-going.  "  I  wish  I  hadn't 
been  born  a  child  neiver,  Betty,"  he  repeated,  pulling 
at  her  skirt  to  recall  attention. 

"  You  weren't,"  said  Betty  promptly,  "  none  of  you 
were.  There  isn't  one  of  you  who  knows  how  to  be  a 
child.  Now,"  stopping  and  jerking  him  by  the  shoul- 
der, "  what  are  you  doing,  little  wretch  ?  " 

u  There's  a  great  black  beetle,  Betty,"  the  child 
whimpered.  "  I  am  going  to  crack  him.  Oh,  let  me 
crack  him  quick,  Betty.  He's  coming  for  me — he's 
coming  for  me  I  " 

Betty  stooped  and  picked  up  the  bettle  slowly 
traveling  adown  the  road,  examined  him  with  inter- 
est as  he  lay  on  her  own  palm,  then  seized  the  little 
stepbrother's  hand,  protected  in  its  brown  woollen 
glove.  The  child  struggled,  giving  a  fierce  yell  of 
extremest  terror  :  "  Hold  out  your  paw  1 "  she  com- 
manded. 

She  held  it  extended  in  the  grip  of  her  own  strong 
hand  and  laid  the  beetle  in  the  little  shrinking  palm  : 
"  Now,  carry  him  safely  out  of  harm's  way,  to  the 
side  of  the  road." 

But  Gussy,  with  one  look  at  the  terrible  black- 
mailed monster  beginning  to  march  toward  the  shelter 
of  a  little  shirt  wristband,  uttered  shriek  upon  shriek 
of  terror ;  the  hand  was  held  relentlessly  in  Betty's 
own  but  the  legs  gave  way. 

Up  came  the  little  brothers,  mild  interest  shining 
in  the  prominent  dull  eyes,  so  like  Mr.  Jervois's  own, 
their  little  sharp  noses  and  large  thin  ears  tipped  pink 
and  blue  with  the  cold.  "  He's  getting  up  your  sleeve, 
Gussy,"  Edric  cried  with  a  shuddering  glee,  hopping 
in  the  mud  before  his  agonized  brother.  Carlyon,the 
eldest  hope  of  the  second  family,  endeavored  with  a 
10 


146  TEE  CEDAR  STAB. 

twig  applied  to  the  back-most  legs  of  him  to  hurry 
the  retreat  of  the  beetle  into  Gussy's  coat  sleeve.  A 
positive  howl  of  terror  from  the  victim  was  the  result. 

"  Do  you  see  this  man  coming  on  horseback  ? " 
Betty  inquired.  "  If  you  haven't  done  as  I  tell  you 
before  he  comes  I  will  ask  him  to  get  down  and  you 
shall  ride  his  horse." 

"  I'll  tell  my  mamma-a-a !  "  in  a  shriek  from  Gussy. 

"  Oh,  my  !  Gussy  on  a  horse  I  "  in  joyful  expecta- 
tion from  Carlyon. 

"  Mamma  said  he  wasn't  even  to  ride  Mrs.  Butcher's 
rocking-horse  any  more  because  he  fell  off.  I  shall 
tell  mamma,"  in  angry  expostulation  from  Edric. 

"  Now  then  !  "  said  Betty,  the  relentless. 

A  glance  at  the  approaching  horseman  showed  her 
that  it  would  not  be  a  pleasant  thing  to  put  her  threat 
into  execution.  It  was  not  Mr.  Butcher  jogging  along 
on  his  old  cob,  as  she  had  expected,  it  was  not  the 
curate  from  exercising  Taffy's  successor — a  successor, 
by  the  way,  worthy  of  Taffy  in  every  particular.  It 
was  not  the  kind  of  equestrian  to  whom  they  were 
accustomed  in  the  neighborhood  of  Blow  Weston,  but 
a  stranger  on  a  well-groomed  horse.  It  was  advisable 
that  Gussy's  choice  should  be  made  for  him,  and 
quickly.  He  being  in  the  condition  known  to  nurses 
as  "  no  legs,"  Betty  dragged  him  on  his  little  trousers 
across  the  road  and  shook  the  insect  from  his  palm 
upon  the  wayside  grass. 

She  had  had  her  way,  but  Gussjr  was  covered  with 
mud  and  shaken  with  sobs.  He  looked  down  at  the 
condition  of  his  garments,  and  howled  with  renewed 
vigor,  for  Caroline  held  close  investigation  on  the 
return  from  the  promenade,  and  expected  nothing  less 
than  spotlessness  of  apparel. 


"  WHERE  ARE  THE  SPRINGS  OF  LONG  AGO?"  147 

"  Here  is  the  horse !  "  cried  Betty.  "  Little  wretch ! 
be  quiet !  " 

But  Gussy,  who  thought  that  the  threat  to  make 
him  ride  the  enormous  and  night-marish  animal  now 
approaching,  was  about  to  be  put  in  execution,  tore 
himself  with  a  frenzied  motion  from  his  sister's  grasp, 
and  set  himself  running  in  the  opposite  direction  from 
that  in  which  he  had  proceeded,  the  direction  in  which 
the  horseman  also  was  going.  The  little  brothers 
with  a  feeble  "  whoop  "  started  in  pursuit,  Betty  fol- 
lowing, for  it  seemed  probable  that  one  of  them  would 
be  knocked  down.  She  caught  a  child  in  each  hand 
and  flung  him  upon  the  roadside.  She  made  a  grab  at 
Gussy,  who  evaded  her  and  fell  full  length  beneath 
the  horses'  feet. 

The  rider,  having  also  seen  the  danger,  had  fortu- 
nately slackened  his  speed.  He  pulled  his  horse  up 
sharply  but  without  any  difficulty,  as  the  now  speech- 
less but  uninjured  child  was  dragged  away.  He  leaned 
forward  with  a  soothing  hand  on  his  horse's  neck, 
and  looked  at  the  girl  and  the  child  with  a  smile  that 
lifted  his  lips  at  the  corners. 

"  I  hope  no  one  is  hurt  ?  "  he  said. 

And  Betty,  panting,  flushed,  disordered,  recognized 
in  a  moment  the  narrow,  faints-colored  eyes,  the 
clean-shaved,  morose,  attractive  face,  the  black,  straight 
hair  of  the  man  above  her. 

"  We're  all  right,"  she  assured  him  curtly,  "  only  a 
little  muddy." 

She  could  not  say  more  for  a  minute,  for  she  had 
been  frightened  for  the  child's  safet}' ;  she  was  not 
such  a  good  runner  as  in  these  short-petticoated  days 
when  she  had  seen  this  man  last ;  and  her  breath  had 
failed  her.  She  looked  down  at  the  miserable  urchin 


148  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

in  her  hands.  His  face,  even,  was  muddy  now,  a 
grated  place  was  on  his  forehead,  red  among  the  other 
stains,  and  through  a  jagged  hole  in  the  comfortable 
wool  stockings,  a  grated  knee  was  peeping. 

"  It  was  all  about  a  beetle,"  Betty  explained,  still 
pantingly,  a  hand  upon  her  chest.  "  He  wished  to 
jump  on  a  beetle.  Boys  who  jump  on  beetles  have 
got  to  be  punished." 

"  She  said  I  should  ride  your  horse — she  said  he 
would  gallop  away  wiv  me,"  Gussy  cried,  his  power 
of  speech  returning  amid  choking  sobs. 

"  Betty  teased  him.  She's  always  teasing.  I  shall 
tell  mamma  you  teased  poor  Gussy,"  threatened  Edric 
from  the  roadside. 

Betty  laughed.  "  We  had  better  go  home  to  your 
mamma,"  she  said.  Then  once  more  she  looked  at  the 
face  above  her.  "  My  name  is  Betty  Jervois,"  she 
said.  "  Perhaps  you  are  going  on  to  the  rectory. 
You  are  Violet's  husband — Mr.  Harringay,  I  know." 

"  I  knew  you  at  once,  of  course,''  Harringay  said  as 
they  shook  hands, ''  I  did  not  expect  that  you  would 
remember  me." 

"  I  don't  forget  easily,"  said  Betty,  her  eyes  upon 
him,  noting  the  line  here,  the  line  there  time  had 
graved  upon  his  face  since  she  had  seen  it  last.  "  And 
Bill — Mr.  Carlyon — told  me  he  had  met  you  and  that 
you  were  coming  to  Blow  Weston." 

"  Carlyon  asked  me  to  come,"  he  said.  He  ex- 
pressed no  pleasure  in  availing  himself  of  Carlj-on's 
request  as  he  had  certainly  shown  no  eagerness  to  do 
so ;  and  Betty  remembered  how,  of  old,  he  had  always 
omitted  the  things  that  other  people  said  as  a  matter 
of  course. 

The  pedestrian  contingent  had  turned,  walking  on 


"  WHERE  ABE  THE  SPRINGS  OF  LONG  AGO?"  149 

by  the  side  of  the  horseman :  "  Oh,  my,  Gussy ! 
Look  at  your  poor  knee,"  one  of  the  children  cried, 
and  Gussy's  redoubled  cries  rent  the  air.  He  grasped 
the  wounded  member  in  one  hand  and  advanced  in 
stooping  position,  with  a  limping  gait  which  consider- 
ably impeded  progress. 

"  You  had  better  ride  on  and  leave  us  to  our  fate," 
Betty  suggested,  but  Harringay  reined  in  his  chafing 
horse  and  kept  alongside. 

"  My  knee,  oh,  my  po'r,  dear,  hurted  knee !  I  fink 
I  shall  die — yes,  I  fink  I  shall,"  sobbed  the  despairing 
Gussy. 

Betty  flung  back  her  cloak  over  her  shoulders  and, 
stooping,  took  the  child  in  her  arms. 

"  He  is  far  too  heavy  for  you,"  objected  Harringay. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Too  muddy,  then." 

"  A  little  mud  more  or  less,"  said  Betty  with  grand 
indifference.  She  smiled,  not  unkindly,  upon  the  mis- 
erable object  in  her  arms.  "Baby!"  she  said,  "  If 
you'd  only  been  born  a  child  instead  of  the  queer 
little  nondescript  you  are,  how  you  would  have  revelled 
in  your  present  condition  of  dirt !  Did  you  ever  see 
a  boy  so  unawake  to  his  advantages  ?  "  she  asked  of 
Harringay. 

But  Harringay 's  63^68  overlooked  the  form  of  the 
luckless  Gussy  as  if  he  did  not  exist.  That  cold 
glance  of  his  passing  her  by  had  wounded  little  Betty 
many  a  time.  It  did  not  pass  her  now.  It  rested  on 
her  as  she  stepped  along  at  his  side,  her  burden  in  her 
arms,  noting  the  splendid  pose  of  her  figure,  built  for 
strength  as  well  as  grace,  the  rich  color  of  her  hair, 
the  contour  of  her  face. 

The  man  had  an  artist's  eye  and  these  things  natur- 


150  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

ally  attracted  it.  He  would  like  to  sketch  her  carry- 
ing the  child,  he  thought.  He  rode  on  composing  his 
picture  in  his  mind,  while  Betty  made  attempts  at 
conversation,  he  obviously  paying  small  attention. 

"  I  think  I  made  a  picture  of  you  once,"  he  sud- 
denly remembered  with  that  intent  look  at  her  from 
tender,  heavy  brows  which  used  to  be  for  Cousin  Yio- 
let,  never  for  child  Betty. 

"  You  did.  A  quaint  imp  of  a  child,  all  eyes  and 
hair.  No  one  considers  it  flattering." 

"  I  dare  say.  I  have  no  special  desire  to  flatter  peo- 
ple when  I  paint  them.  I  paint  them  as  they  seem  to 
me — not  as  their  vanity  or  their  uneducated  taste 
makes  them  desire  to  appear.  I  should  like  to  have 
that  picture  again." 

"  You  won't,"  said  Betty.  "  It  is  one  of  my  proud- 
est possessions."  She  stopped  to  shift  Gussy  in  her 
arms,  his  weight  was  beginning  to  tell  on  her. 

"  Put  him  up  in  front  of  me,"  Harringay  suggested, 
reining  in.  "  Come  up  here,  bo3T." 

Gussy  received  the  invitation  with  howls  of  terror, 
clinging  closer  to  his  sister. 

i4  Fling  him  in  the  ditch,"  Harringay's  expression 
seemed  to  counsel,  but  Betty,  laughing,  shook  her 
head  and  walked  on. 

"  In  these  days,"  she  said,  "  if  you  had  drawn  me 
like  a  nigger  and  had  said  it  was  like  me  I  should 
have  believed  you  and  fought  everyone  who  dared  to 
express  a  contrary  opinion." 

"  I  wonder  why." 

"Why?"  Betty  smiled  at  him,  and  it  was  extra- 
ordinary how  bright  her  smile  could  be  at  times. 
She  bad  often,  in  the  intervening  years,  told  an  imag- 
inary deeply  touched  Harringay  of  that  early  worship 


"  WHERE  ARE  THE  SPRINGS  OF  LONG  AGO?"  151 

of  hers.  It  had  been  so  real,  so  deep,  so  true  a  thing ! 
The  waste  of  it  all  was  so  pitiful !  It  would  be  some- 
thing, at  least,  that  he  should  know.  The  time  and 
the  opportunity  had  come  at  last ;  but  her  breathing 
was  troubled,  thanks  to  overexertion  on  Gussy's  ac- 
count, the  children  were  listening,  gazing,  with  up- 
turned sharp  little  noses  and  red-pricked  ears ;  and 
Betty  contrived  to  put  all  she  had  to  say  in  her  smile. 

"  You  used  to  draw,"  he  said,  having  probably 
cudgelled  his  brain  for  some  distinct  recollection  of 
her. 

"  I  used  to  think  I  did,"  corrected  Betty,  "  I'm  try- 
ing to  learn  to  do  so  now.  It  was  an  ambition  that 
lay  very  near  my  heart  even  in  babyhood.  You  once 
said  something  I  had  drawn  was  clever.  You  little 
thought  what  an  important  speech  it  was.  It  was  the 
beginning  of — everything." 

"  And  what  was  '  everything  ? '  "  Harringay  asked. 

But  Betty  smiled  that  radiant  smile  straight  ahead 
of  her  now,  as  she  walked  on.  She  would  tell  him  the 
history  of  that  childish  devotion  on  another  occasion. 

"  And  so  you  are  studying  art  ?  I  don't  know  if 
I  could  be  of  service  to  you  in  any  way,"  Harringay 
said  slowly,  brooding  on  the  thought.  "  I've  never 
done  a  thing  to  speak  of,  myself,  but  I've  known  a 
good  man}'  of  the  men  who  have.  If  I  could  help 

you-" 

u  Here's  Uncle  Bill !  "  interrupted  Carly. 

"  Hi !  Uncle  Bill !  "  cried  a  chorus  of  little  voices. 

And  Bill,  coming  down  a  cottage  garden  to  the 
gate,  found  himself  suddenly  in  the  midst  of  the 
friendly  group.  He  took  Gussy  out  of  Betty's  arm, 
the  small  boy  beginning  to  whimper  again  over  the 
necessity  of  narrating  his  wrongs  afresh. 


152  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

"  Betty  teased  me,  Uncle  Bill,"  he  sobbed,  "  I  hate 
Betty.  She  put  ve  beetle  up  my  sleeve,  and  frowed 
me  at  the  horse." 

"  Betty  dragged  Gussy  in  the  road,  Uncle  Bill," 
Carly  explained.  "  Gussy's  spoilt  his  new  trousers. 
Bett}-  made  him." 

"  I  shall  tell  mamma  what  Betty  did,"  Edric  pro- 
tested spitefully. 

"  Betty's  so  wicked,  Uncle  Bill !  "  Betty  herself 
said  gaily.  She  was  in  excellent  spirits,  somehow,  in 
spite  of  the  untoward  events  of  the  morning,  exhil- 
arated rather  than  not,  by  the  ill-opinion  of  the  poor 
little  half-brothers.  "  Mr.  Harringay  knew  me  at  once 
after  all  these  years,  Uncle  Bill,"  she  added. 

Harringay  was  going  on  by  appointment  to  lunch 
at  Queen  Anne's  Cottage.  When  Carlyon  had  de- 
posited Gussy  and  his  dilapidations  at  the  rectory 
gate,  the  two  men  went  on  to  the  curate's  cottage  to- 
gether. 

"  Be  at  home  this  afternoon.  We  are  coming  up," 
Carlyon  said  to  Betty  as  they  parted. 

It  was  with  no  lightening  of  his  countenance  that 
Harringay  made  reacquaintance  with  the  places  and 
the  faces  he  had  known  familiarly  ten  years  ago.  As 
the  landmarks  of  the  village  rose  before  his  view,  no 
joyful  words  of  recognition  escaped  his  lips.  He 
nodded  gravely  to  the  salutations  of  the  long-mem- 
oried  country  folk,  who  easily  recognize  a  casual 
visitor  of  twenty  years  ago. 

If  that  love  affair  which  he  had  interrupted,  had 
been  allowed  to  run  to  its  legitimate  conclusion,  if 
Violet  had  been  reigning  at  Queen  Anne's,  the  mother 
of  the  curate's  children,  with  what  a  melancholy 


"  WHERE  ABE  THE  SPRINGS  OF  LONG  AGO?"  153 

pleasure  might  he  not  have  visited  the  scene  of  that 
disappointed  early  passion  of  his  own  !  Beneath  that 
orchard  tree  he  had  first  seen  Violet  standing,  bare- 
headed, "  between  the  blossom  and  the  grass."  What 
a  child  she  had  looked,  how  innocently,  shyly  in- 
terested had  been  the  blue  eyes  upraised  to  his.  It 
was  by  this  meadow-gate  he  had  watched  for  her 
coming,  how  many  a  time  1  the  picturesque  urchins 
who  were  her  charges  around  her.  In  this  room  he 
had  lain  and  thought  of  her,  wilfully  tempting  his 
imagination  with  what  was  forbidden.  Sitting  in  that 
chair,  he  had  first  seen  the  look  in  her  face  which  had 
never  failed  to  appear  there  since  when  he  had  cared 
to  call  it  forth. 

With  what  a  pleasurable  pain  in  his  heart  would 
he  have  recalled  it  all ! 

But  now — now  that  he  had  had  the  thing  he  longed 
for,  the  romance  was  somehow  ended.  Such  as  it  was, 
indeed,  it  had  been  ended  from  the  first  moment  that 
he  had  known  he  could  have  his  own  way.  He  had 
willed  that  Violet  should  adore  him,  and  he  found  that 
to  be  adored  by  her  bored  him  to  death.  His  had 
been  the  error  to  strive  to  make  of  a  passing  guest, 
who  partly  pleased,  the  permanent  inmate  of  his 
heart.  Tight-lipped  and  dull  of  eye,  he  looked  about 
him.  Even  in  this  renewal  of  old  friendship  there  was 
humiliation,  a  constant  reminder  of  the  fact  that  he 
had  played  the  ignoble  part.  He  had  a  sense  not 
agreeable  to  his  self-conceit  of  having  been  fooled,  for 
his  own  part,  too.  For  he  had  thought  that  he  had 
wrought  an  irreparable  injury,  murdered  a  friendship, 
— and  here  was  Bill  not  a  penny  the  worse,  able  not 
only  to  forgive  but  to  forget ! 

Several  times  finding  the  visitor  silent  on  the  sub- 


154  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

ject,  the  curate  introduced  Mrs.  Harringay's  name. 
Presently  the  husband  himself  mentioned  it :  "  You 
know  that  she  has  become  deaf?  "  he  said. 

"  It  is  a  great  misfortune,"  the  old  lover  said.  "  Of 
course  you  have  taken  special  advice  ?  " 

"  There  is  nothing  to  be  done.  It  is  inherited.  She 
will  probably  become  stone  deaf  before  she  dies.  She 
is  extremely  sensitive  on  the  point  and  will  have  none 
of  the  appliances  which  might  alleviate.  She  is  not 
clever  at  lip  reading.  There  is  a  heavy  future  before 
her,  I  fear.  I  have  thought  she  would  be  happier  at 
Edmundsbury,  near  her  own  people." 

"  You  are  going  to  settle  down  at  last  ?  "  the  curate 
asked. 

"  I  don't  very  easily  settle  down,"  Harringay  had 
evasively  replied. 

Then  he  began  to  speak  of  Betty  Jervois  ! 

"  My  wife  reminds  me  I  predicted  the  child  would 
be  a  beauty.  And  she  is,"  he  said.  "  Oh,  not  per- 
haps in  the  vulgar  acceptance  of  the  word — the 
classical  type  in  an  English  woman  is  abomination  to 
me.  There  is  something  strange  and  unfamiliar  in 
her  style  that  would  not  appeal  to  every  taste.  But 
she  has  a  form  and  coloring  that  an  artist  must 
worship.  I  know  a  dozen  men  who'd  give  their  ears 
to  paint  her.  I  shouldn't  do  her  justice  or  I'd  have  a 
try.  No  woman  cares  to  sit  to  me.  They  say  I 
make  them  so  ugly.  I  paint  them  as  I  see  them 
and  they  often  are  precious  ugly — even  the  best  look- 
ing of  them,  to  my  thinking.  I  wonder  if  she'd  let  me 
try?" 

"  You  can  but  ask  her,"  Bill  said. 

He  wasn't  very  keen  on  the  subject  himself,  being 
too  unenlightened  to  admire  Harringay's  female 


"  WHERE  ABE  THE  SPRINGS  OF  LONG  AGOf"  155 

heads  :  "  They  may  be  clever  but  I'd  rather  have 
something  pleasanter  to  look  upon — and  with  just  a 
suspicion  of  likeness  to  the  original,"  he  thought,  re- 
membering the  unfinished  head  of  the  child  Betty  with 
its  halo  of  impossible  hair. 

"  There's  an  uncommon  ugly  likeness  of  her  up  in 
Peter's  room  in  town.  Perhaps  she'd  think  that  was 
enough  for  one  artist,"  said  Bill  with  a  laugh. 

But  that  was  a  subject  on  which  the  artist  was  not 
at  all  touchy.  No  criticism  of  Bill's  could  possibly 
affect  Ted  Harringay.  He  took  up  a  book  that  lay  on 
a  chair  beside  him,  and  on  the  fly-leaf,  by  means  of  a 
few  strokes,  he  produced  a  vigorous  sketch  of  the  girl 
who  had  walked  beside  his  horse  that  morning  carry- 
ing the  child. 

Bill  was  astonished :  "  I  say  I  That's  fine,"  he 
said.  "  Perhaps  if  you  confined  yourself  to  black  and 
white,  you'd  do,  Harringay.  It's  when  you  get  to  the 
paint  box  1  " — 

"  I  should  not  paint  her  so,*'  said  Harringay,  con- 
sidering the  sketch.  "  She  should  tramp  along  by  the 
side  of  a  caravan,  her  face  to  the  sunset,  carrying  her 
child.  Head  bare,  feet  and  ankles  bare — I'd  wager 
my  soul  she  has  a  beautiful  foot  and  ankle  " — 

"  The  color  of  the  sunset  faithfully  reproduced  in 
her  hair,  poor  girl !  "  the  curate  interrupted,  getting 
up  hastily.  "  We  know  your  methods  too  well,  Har- 
ringay. Come — let  us  go  across  to  pay  our  respects 
to  the  poor  rector." 


156  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

VIOLET'S  HUSBAND. 

THE  visit  of  Yiolet's  husband  created  a  welcome 
diversion  at  the  rectory.  There  were  times  when  the 
sick  man  showed  an  irritable  weariness  of  all  about 
him,  even  of  Caroline,  and  her  unfailing,  dutiful  de- 
votion, even  of  William  Carlyon  and  his  sympathetic 
silences.  The  enjoyment  of  Betty's  society  was  at- 
tended with  many  drawbacks.  He  knew  that  his 
wife  was  jealous  of  the  younger  woman's  ministra- 
tions. It  was  better  to  forego  them  than  to  "  create  a 
friction  "  as  he  put  it  to  himself.  Longing  for  some 
distraction  in  these  monotonous  days  the  rector  turned 
eagerly  to  the  newcomer  for  whom  he  had  had  a  lik- 
ing in  the  old  time.  He  parted  from  Harringay  with 
evident  reluctance  and  begged  of  him  to  come  again. 

Harringay,  touched  by  the  man's  condition,  by  the 
kindly  remembrance  kept  of  himself,  exerted  him- 
self, in  a  manner,  rare  with  him  who  was  generally 
indifferent  to  the  impression  he  produced,  to  please. 

"  We  have  had  a  pleasant  afternoon.  I  have  en- 
joyed it,  Caroline.  We  will  get  Harringay  to  come 
over  again,  my  dear,  not  Violet.  Ten  minutes  of  her 
in  this  shattered  state  would  destroy  me.  Keep  Violet 
away  from  me,  I  implore  you." 

Caroline  foresaw  difficulties  in  the  way  of  inviting 
the  man  to  the  house  without  his  wife,  especially  as 
the  wife  was  a  near  relative.  Betty  came  to  the  res- 
cue. 


VIOLET'S   HUSBAND.  157 

"  Bill  can  get  him  over  whenever  you  like,  father," 
she  said.  "  Mr.  Harringay  won't  want  to  bring 
Violet,  and  I'm  sure  he'll  like  to  come  if  you  wish  for 
him." 

It  is  to  be  supposed  Betty  was  right  and  he  liked  it, 
for  he  came  promptly  enough  at  a  word  of  invitation, 
and  he  came  and  came  again.  As  the  weeks  went  on 
the  figure  of  Edward  Harringay  became  familiar  as  of 
old  to  the  inhabitants  of  Blow  Weston,  riding  his 
handsome  horse  along  the  Edmundsbury  high  road  on 
his  way  to  St.  Anne's  strolling  across  meadow  and 
through  kitchen  garden  from  the  curate's  house  to  the 
rector's. 

Occasionally  Violet  drove  over  in  lonely  state. 

"  You  would  have  to  bind  Ted  with  chains  to  get 
him  to  sit  in  my  carriage,"  she  said.  "  He  much  pre- 
fers riding — and  riding  does  him  far  more  good." 

She  was  always  making  excuse  for  the  absence  of 
her  husband  from  her  side  ;  her  tongue  from  much 
use  had  grown  glib  in  the  art. 

But  Violet  was  not  allowed  to  see  the  invalid,  and 
her  visits,  she  gathered,  were  disturbing  to  the 
regime  of  the  house,  making  calls  upon  the  time  of 
those  who  could  not  be  spared  from  apportioned  duties 
in  the  sick  room  or  other-where  ;  and  so  her  visits  to 
her  uncle's  house  became  less  and  less  frequent. 

The  rector's  always  feeble  interest  in  parish  matters 
had  ceased  altogether  with  his  illness.  It  was  per- 
haps impossible  for  Caroline  and  Bill  Carlyon,  whose 
hearts  were  in  such  work,  thoroughly  to  comprehend 
this.  It  was  with  the  local  births,  deaths  and  ill- 
nesses, with  the  doings  of  the  various  Boards  of 
which  he  had  been  a  member,  of  the  school-meetings 
of  which  he  had  been  chairman,  that  they  talked  to 


158  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

him,  endeavoring  to  divert  his  mind.  The  poor  man 
had  grown  impatient  of  it  all ;  it  was  wearisome,  pain- 
ful. 

It  was  Harringay  who  divined  this,  who  knew  by 
instinct  the  themes  to  select  and  those  to  let  alone. 
He  saw  when  the  man  was  too  faint  and  tired  to  take 
his  part  in  conversation,  when  he  preferred  to  sit 
silent  and  hear  others  talk.  It  was  Harringay  who 
discovered  an  inexhaustible  well  of  interest  for  her 
father  in  Betty's  tales  of  her  life  with  Peter  in  Wil- 
mington Terrace,  in  her  account  of  her  art  school  ex- 
periences. 

Talk  on  such  subjects  had  been  impossible  to  Betty 
with  Caroline,  coldly  critical,  sitting  by,  shocked  at 
this,  primly  alarmed  at  that,  condemning  with  her 
narrow  comprehension  each  incident  of  Betty's"  large 
hours."  But  with  Harringay  for  intelligent  listener 
a  hundred  feeble-witted  carping  Carolines  would  not 
have  marred  Betty's  spirited  descriptions.  Life  had 
not  been  always  gay  or  successful  in  the  3Tears  in  the 
German  school,  in  the  years  in  Wilmington  Terrace  ; 
but  Betty  knew  how  not  to  make  the  recital  dull. 
Only  what  was  comic  or  interesting,  or  picturesque, 
nothing  of  what  was  sordid  or  sad  of  the  seamy  side 
of  existence  in  her  continental  life  or  her  life  up  the 
seventy-two  stairs,  did  her  auditors  learn. 

It  was  a  little  difficult  to  make  the  rector  under- 
stand that  his  daughter  was  not  the  crown  and  glory 
of  the  Walker  school.  And  when  Betty's  native 
honesty  forced  her  to  undeceive  him  on  the  point,  he 
suggested  to  Mr.  Harringay  that  justice  should  be 
done  the  girl  in  this  particular,  and  called  upon  him 
to  help  in  putting  matters  right. 

"  You  know  this  professor  of  hers,  you  say  ?  "  he 


VIOLET'S   HUSBAND.  159 

observed  when  Betty  was  out  of  the  room,  "  he  ought 
to  be  able  to  discover  talent  when  he  sees  it — but  if 
he  can't,  it  must  be  pointed  out  to  him.  I  should  like 
him  to  be  put  right  about  my  daughter  when  she 
goes  back." 

Then  he  turned  from  that  subject  too,  with  a  sigh. 
When  she  went  back  !  Another  of  the  things  which 
would  take  place  when  he  was  dead.  How  narrow 
had  become  the  range  of  subjects  on  which  he  could 
reflect  without  pain.  His  own  death  stood  to  block 
the  avenue  of  every  line  of  thought. 

On  days,  becoming  ever  more  frequent,  when  the 
invalid  was  unfit  to  bear  the  fatigue  even  of  Harrin- 
gay's  society  for  long  at  a  time,  the  man  would  look 
into  the  schoolroom  upon  the  small  Jervoises  im- 
mersed in  those  daily  tasks  which  it  was  Betty's 
hated  duty  to  supervise.  He  found  them  generally 
in  a  state  of  feeble  rebellion,  whining  and  snapping 
at  their  half-sister,  a  store  of  complaints  laid  up 
against  her  to  repeat  to  their  mamma  at  lunch  or  tea- 
time.  Frequently,  one  of  the  small  boys  would  be 
discovered  holding  himself,  by  virtue  of  bribe  or 
threat,  in  position  for  Betty  to  draw.  To  be  con- 
verted into  a  model  for  Betty's  sketchbook  was  one 
of  the  greatest  penalties  she  could  inflict  on  a  delin- 
quent— she  had  recourse  to  it  frequently,  the  swift 
and  ready  corporal  punishment  she  would  have  ac- 
corded, having  been  vetoed  by  mamma. 

If  he  were  in  the  mood  Harringay  would  criticise 
the  sketch,  oftener  he  would  suggest  that  Betty  stroll 
through  the  open  window  with  him  to  enjoy  a  mouth- 
ful of  the  fresh  air  while  the  little  brothers  completed 
their  tasks  as  best  they  could,  alone. 

This  was  a  distraction  which  commended  itself  all 


160  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

round.  No  tales  were  told  of  Betty's  defection.  The 
tasks  were  never  completed,  but  Betty  took  no  notice. 

She  was  so  busy  in  thinking  of  other  things  when 
she  came  back  that  she  did  not  ask  if  sums  were 
done,  or  exercises  written.  They  might  say  their 
spelling-column,  their  pence-table,  their  page  of  Eng- 
lish history,  as  they  pleased,  for  Betty  never  listened. 

Once  or  twice  TJncle  Bill,  who  knew  the  lesson 
hours,  and  had  been  peremptorily  ordered  by  Caro- 
line never  to  interrupt  them,  walking  past  the  window 
for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  Betty  at  her  post  in  the 
schoolroom,  had  found  that  post  vacant.  He  was 
glad  to  know  that  she  was  in  the  sunshine  and  fresh 
air,  instead  of  boxed  up  with  the  whimpering  little 
nephews.  She  could  never  resist  an  open  window,  he 
would  say  to  himself  with  a  smile,  how  often  he  had 
known  her  to  play  truant !  Nature  animate  and  in- 
animate, was  always  issuing  invitations  to  Betty  Jer- 
vois  to  come  out  to  play. 

Once,  turning  away  from  the  window,  he  had  heard 
his  name  called  in  two  voices,  and  had  discovered 
Betty  and  Harringay  sitting  under  the  cedar  on  the 
lawn  : 

"  Mr.  Harringay  is  waiting  to  go  in  to  father. 
Don't  tell  that  I  escaped  to  talk  to  him,"  Betty  said. 
"  Look !  » 

She  held  out  her  sketchbook  to  Carlyon  wherein 
was  a  freshly  executed,  cruel  caricature  of  the  curate's 
favorite  nephew,  weeping  in  a  corner. 

"  It's  really  good  enough  for  Punch,"  Bill  said.  It 
was  the  familiar  criticism  he  made  on  all  Betty's 
drawings. 

He  turned  over  a  leaf:  "  This  is  good — very  good  I 
I  should  have  known  this  anywhere,  Betty,"  he  said. 


VIOLET'S  HUSBAND.  161 

"  If  I'd  seen  only  that  hand  hanging  over  the  side  of 
the  chair,  '  That's  Harringay's  hand,'  I  should  have 
said." 

Betty  wrinkled  her  forehead,  looking  at  the  sketch 
over  the  curate's  shoulder  :  "  It  isn't  very  good,  you 
stupid  Bill,"  she  said.  "  It  was  done  from  memory,  I 
can  never  draw  from  memory." 

"  That  me  ? "  Harringay  asked,  and  held  out  his 
hand  for  the  book.  He  only  glanced  at  the  picture. 
"  I'd  no  idea  I  was  such  a  morose-looking  beggar,"  he 
said.  But  he  looked  rather  closely  at  Betty,  stand- 
ing up  unconscious  and  smiling  at  the  curate's  side. 
Perhaps  he  was  the  only  one  of  the  three  who  recog- 
nized what  a  flattering  thing  this  careful  portrait 
"  done  from  memory  "  was. 

On  another  occasion  when  he  saw  her  chair  at  the 
head  of  the  schoolroom  table  empty,  and  learned  that 
Mr.  Harringay  had  taken  her  away  from  quite  the 
commencement  of  lessons,  Carlyon  searched  the  gar- 
den, even  the  orchard  and  plantations  for  Betty  and 
her  companion — in  vain. 

She  had  taken  him  to  Sally  Nubbs'  cottage  she  ex- 
plained on  her  return,  to  see  the  old  world  chimney- 
corner  with  the  pot  hanging  on  the  hook  over  the  fire 
on  the  hearth.  Mr.  Harringay  had  said  the  old 
woman  in  her  wooden  armchair,  with  her  snowy, 
crinkled  hair  tucked  away  under  the  old  black  bonnet, 
would  make  a  capital  study,  and  the  two  had  sketched 
her  there  and  then.  According  to  Mrs.  Nubbs  Betty's 
had  been  the  more  satisfactory  portrait  of  the  two,  for 
she  had  recognized  herself  at  once  and  was  specially 
enraptured  with  the  faithful  picture  of  the  chair. 
Whereas  she  had  been  both  hurt  and  angry  at  the 
scant  lines  with  which  Harringay  had  produced  her; 
11 


162  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

and  she  had  vowed  'twas  a  shame  to  say  such  an  ugly 
old  witch  could  represent  her  at  all. 

"  All  the  same,"  said  Betty  generously,  and  half 
shutting  her  eyes  as  though  describing  what  she  saw 
at  arm's  length  before  her, 4'  the  way  he  had  indicated 
that  quick,  furtive  glance  above  her  spectacles  of  the 
hateful  old  woman,  the  manner  in  which  the  knotted, 
stiff  hand  lay  along  the  arm  of  the  chair,  was  masterlj'. 
It  is  an  education  for  me  to  see  him  draw.  It  is  only 
when  I  look  at  his  things  I  fully  realize  what  an  in- 
competent I  am." 

If  there  were  really  advantage  to  the  girl  in  this 
companionship,  Carl}- on  was  the  last  to  deprive  her 
of  it ;  but  he  was  not  a  man  to  be  careless  even  in 
little  things  where  the  woman  he  loved  was  concerned. 
He  judged  her  very  tenderly  for  the  desire  to  escape 
from  a  melancholy  house  and  an  irksome  occupation, 
but  he  knew  that  she  was  laying  herself  open  to  blame 
from  more  than  Caroline  by  shirking  her  duty  ;  and 
he  thought  to  himself  that  Harringay  must  be  told 
not  to  tempt  her  forth. 

"  We  see  a  good  bit  of  Violet's  husband,  you  and  I, 
Betty,"  he  said  to  her, "  I  don't  like  not  to  be  fair  and 
above-board  with  him  in  every  way.  I  think  I  shall 
tell  him  that  we  are  going  one  day  to  be  married." 

He  was  astonished  at  the  force  of  her  objection  to 
this  suggestion.  Her  colorless  cheeks  grew  swiftly 
crimson  and  she  looked  at  him  with  an  angry  threat 
in  her  eyes. 

"  If  you  tell  him,  that  day  will  never  come,"  she 
said. 

When  she  saw  his  hurt  and  startled  look,  she  re- 
pented of  the  vigor  she  had  displayed :  "  We  can't 
keep  it  from  this  person  and  tell  to  that,''  she  said  in 


VIOLET'S   HUSBAND.  163 

a  milder  tone.  "  No  secret  was  ever  kept  so ;  and  for 
my  father's  sake,  while  he  lives,  I  will  have  it  a  secret. 
Why  do  you  want  to  make  difficulties  ?  Supposing 
all  the  world  knew  we  should  be  and  do  just  the  same." 

"  You  might,"  Bill  acknowledged,  "  I'm  a  good  bit 
uplifted  by  the  fact  that  you  belong  to  me.  I  should 
like  to  strut  a  little." 

"  That  is  not  your  role  at  all,  silly  boy!  "  she  told 
him.  "  I  won't  have  you  making  yourself  ridiculous. 
You  understand  ? " 

He  said  that  he  understood  her  will  in  the  matter, 
but  he  did  not  promise  submission.  He  was  not,  in- 
deed, at  all  likely  to  sign  away  his  right  of  judgment 
even  for  Betty,  and  he  decided  not  only  to  take 
Harringay  into  his  confidence,  but  to  spread  the  news 
far  and  wide  as  soon  as  he  saw  necessity  for  so  doing. 
This  resolve,  however,  he  wisely  kept  to  himself  for 
the  present. 


164  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  CEDAR  STAR. 

THERE  came  an  evening  in  the  history  of  the  rec- 
tor's dying  illness — an  evening  following  a  day  of  op- 
pressive heat — when  the  invalid,  with  a  rug  about  his 
knees,  his  shrunken,  stooping  shoulders  wrapped  in 
Caroline's  fur  cloak,  sat  in  his  library,  drinking  in  the 
scents,  growing  stronger  and  more  ravishing  as  da}-- 
light  died  floating  in  to  him  through  the  open  window. 

It  was  a  Friday  evening,  the  great  effort  to  which 
the  hours  of  the  day  were  consecrated,  being  happily 
achieved,  Carlyon  would  come  across  in  the  sweet 
twilight  to  get  a  few  minutes'  talk  with  Betty  through 
an  open  window,  or  a  turn  with  her  in  the  cool  of  the 
silent  garden,  beneath  the  dark  blue  sky. 

Harringay,  waiting  till  the  heat  of  the  day  should 
be  past,  had  ridden  over  in  that  pleasant  hour.  He 
sat  by  the  sick  man's  side,  while  Caroline,  taking 
advantage  of  his  presence  there,  went  upstairs  to  hear 
the  children's  prayers,  while  Betty,  looking  white  and 
languid  from  heat  and  confinement,  had  escaped  with 
a  book  out  of  doors. 

But  the  light  grew  too  dim  to  read  and  Betty  was 
too  listless  to  go  far  away.  She  walked  up  and  down 
the  path  that  ran  across  the  bottom  of  the  garden, 
and  gathered  a  rose  or  two  from  the  standards  planted 
there  to  put  in  the  glass  on  her  father's  table.  Coming 
slowly  back  she  seated  herself  sidewa}TS  upon  the  low 
window-sill  of  the  library,  and  leaning  her  head  back 
against  the  wall,  looked  up  to  the  sky — pearly  tinted, 


THE  CEDAR  STAB.  165 

with  here  and  there  a  tender  flush  of  rose,  pale  flame 
of  orange,  delicate  amethyst  cloud,  a  reminiscence  of 
the  gorgeous  sunset  of  an  hour  agone. 

Harringay,  sitting  in  sight  of  the  figure  framed  by 
the  foliage  of  the  creeper  growing  thickly  round  the 
window,  of  the  perfectly  outlined,  pallid  face  of  the 
heavily  massed  hair,  talked  on  in  his  always  gentle 
voice — a  voice  capable  of  tenderest  cadences — to  the 
swaddled  figure  in  the  chair.  The  rector  listened  with 
closed  eyes,  making  no  other  response  than  a  sigh. 
Betty,  her  face  turned  upward,  but  with  drooping  lids, 
listened  to  the  voice,  not  following  what  it  said.  She 
was  weary  with  the  distasteful  duties  of  the  long  day, 
weary  of  the  sadness  of  that  death  in  life  which  was 
her  familiar  contemplation,  content  to  sit  inert  with 
suspended  consciousness  and  the  music  of  a  voice  in 
her  ears. 

When  it  ceased,  Harringay  came  softly  across  the 
room  and  stood  beside  her.  There  was  no  embarrass- 
ment for  her  in  the  knowledge  that  he  was  near  her 
and  that  there  was  silence.  She  did  not  stir  so  much 
as  a  finger  of  the  hands  clasped  loosely  on  her  knees, 
the  roses  in  her  lap  were  not  disturbed,  nor  the  posi- 
tion of  her  upturned  face  altered,  but  she  lifted  her 
heavy  lids,  and  the  star  above  the  cedar-tree  on  the 
lawn  shone  into  her  eyes. 

After  a  long  silence  it  was  of  this  star  she  began  to 
speak. 

"  When  we  were  little,"  she  said,  "  we  divided  be- 
tween us  those  of  the  heavenly  bodies  which  met  with 
our  approval.  I  took  the  sun,  I  remember — a  char- 
acteristically modest  appropriation.  To  Emily,  next 
in  order  of  importance,  the  moon  was  allotted.  She 
was  made  responsible  for  the  erratic  behavior  of  her 


166  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

planet  in  hiding  behind  clouds ;  she  was  looked  on  as 
a  delinquent  when  it  was  on  the  wane,  and  on  an  en- 
tirely moonless  night,  Ian  and  I  slated  her  roundly, 
thinking  he  would  make  such  a  nice  playfellow  for 
Paul,  the  kitten.  Ian  made  choice  of  the  Great  Bear. 
But  I,  discovering  that  several  stars  went  to  the  for- 
mation of  that  constellation,  sternly  restricted  her  to 
a  single  star.  Upon  which  she  selected  that  silver 
star  above  the  cedar.  I  don't  even  now  know  it  by 
any  other  name.  I  don't  wish  to.  On  summer  even- 
ings like  this,  Ian  could  see  it  from  her  little  bed, 
shining  above  the  black  branches.  There  it  is,  you 
see — lan's  star." 

He  stood  above  her,  leaning  upon  the  hand  placed 
on  the  window-frame  over  her  head.  There  was  no 
one  to  notice  what  direction  his  eyes  took,  or  to  sur- 
prise the  expression  on  his  face  ;  and  he  did  not  con- 
fine himself  to  the  contemplation  of  the  Cedar  Star. 

"  lan's  kingdom  1  "  she  went  on  softly,  as  if  talking 
to  herself.  "  I  wish  it  were  possible  to  put  from  the 
mind  all  one  tries  to  believe,  and  can't  believe,  and 
doesn't  want  to  believe,  and  to  claim  a  heaven  of  one's 
own  in  a  star  one  knows  and  loves,  and  can  see,  night 
after  night,  with  one's  bodily  eyes !  I  never  want  to 
be  an  angel,  Mr.  Harringay,  do  you  ?  I  would  rather 
be  a  child  again,  haughty,  tyrannical,  irresponsible 
and  happy,  playing  with  the  other  children  in  the 
rectory  garden.  I  like  to  please  myself  by  making 
believe  that  when  the  finish  comes,  that  is  the  heaven 
I  shall  find  in  the  Cedar  Star.  Since  you  are  free  of 
lan's  kingdom,  what  sort  of  a  heaven  will  yon  prefer 
to  find  there,  I  wonder?  " 

"  You  don't  want  me  to  tell  you,  really  ?  " 

"  Yes — really."     She  turned  swiftly  and  looked  up 


THE  CEDAR  STAE.  167 

at  him  ;  and  her  breath  came  quickly  and  her  voice 
sank  to  a  whisper  because  of  something  new  to  her  in 
his  voice. 

"  But  I  may  not  tell  you,"  he  said.  He  lifted  his 
face  which  had  drooped  toward  hers,  the  tempting 
charming  face  beneath  him,  and  turned  away  his  gaze 
from  the  alluring  heaven  of  her  eyes  to  the  placid 
sky  above  him. 

She  looked  up  at  him,  still  with  quick-coming,  pas- 
sionate breathing,  not  speaking. 

"  Do  }7ou  think  that  I  would  not  tell  you  if  I  dared  ?  " 
he  asked,  compelled  to  speech  by  the  eager  voiceful 
silence. 

And  in  those  few  words  he  had  contrived  to  tell 
her  ;  and,  without  more  ado,  she  understood. 

She  moved  her  head  back  into  its  old  position  and 
looked  up  once  more  at  the  star.  Things  had  altered 
in  the  minute  since  she  saw  it  last.  Would  it  content 
her  now  to  play  for  ever  in  a  garden  with  Ian  ?  Bill 
had  always  been  there  in  the  background,  living, 
across  the  meads  of  asphodel,  in  the  Cedar  Star  re- 
production of  Queen  Anne's.  But  now — Harringay 
too!  Harringay — Harringay  above  all!  Betty's 
heaven  was  becoming  complicated. 

After  a  long  silence :  "  I  shall  go  away,"  Harringay 
said  suddenly,  as  if  replying  sharply  to  a  question 
which  had  been  asked. 

A  great  darkness  fell  upon  Betty's  world  and  the 
star  was  blotted  out. 

"  Why  ?  "  she  asked  him  breathlessly,  and  after  a 
pause,  "  Aren't  you  happy  here  ?  " 

"  Happy  ?  As  happy  as  I  deserve  to  be,  I  dare  say. 
Happiness  is  for  the  Cedar  Star,  Betty.  We've  got 
our  private  hells,  some  of  us,  and  you  at  least  have 


168  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

your  special  heaven.  If  I  get  another  chance,  when 
I'm  done  with  the  muddle  I've  made  of  things  here, 
I  should  like  to  take  it  in  lan's  kingdom.  If  not 
there — nowhere  1  " 

"  Why  should  you  go  away  ? "  she  whispered. 
"  Don't  go." 

"  Need  you  say  that  when  you  know  how  weak  I 
am  ?  Don't  you  know  that  while  I  say  '  I  will  go,'  I 
am  boasting  of  a  strength  I  don't  possess.  That  the 
more  certainly  it  is  borne  in  on  me,  that  I  should  not 
hesitate  for  a  moment,  when  duty,  honor,  ererything 
that  decent  men  hold  sacred  bid  me  go  at  once,  with- 
out an  instant's  delay,  the  more  sure  it  is  I,  being 
what  I  am,  shall  stay." 

"  There  are  times  when  it  is  hateful  to  be  strong- 
minded,"  Betty  said,  in  her  hurried  breathless  voice. 
"  Duty  and  honor  and  the  rest  of  it  are  only  tyrants 
we  set  up  over  ourselves — they  can't  always  have  the 
last  word.  You  shall  not  go.  We  could  not  get  on 
without  you  in  this  horrible  time.  My  father  would 
miss  you — you  must  stay." 

"  Oh,  I  shall  stay,"  he  said.  "  I  know  myself  well 
enough  for  that.  There  is  generally  going  on  within 
me  a  struggle  between  decency — what  most  people 
call  duty,  you  know — and  inclination,  and  decency  is 
used  to  going  to  the  wall." 

Across  the  silence  that  again  fell  between  them, 
came  a  long  sigh  from  the  room  behind  them. 

"  Father  1  "  said  Betty,  startled  and  remorseful,  "  I 
had  forgotten  him." 

She  went  hurriedly  into  the  room,  and  presently 
Harringay,  looking  out  upon  the  night,  heard  his 
name  called  sharply. 

"  He  is  dead ! "  Betty  cried,  looking   with   bitter 


THE  CEDAR  STAB.  16S 

self-accusation  upon  the  unconscious  face.  "  We  for- 
got him — and  he  has  died." 

"  He  is  not  dead,  he  has  fainted,"  Harringay  reas- 
sured her. 

"  It  was  my  fault,  Caroline — all  mine,"  Betty  cried 
to  Mrs.  Jervois,  entering.  "  I  forgot  him — and  he 
fainted.  If  he  never  comes  to  himself  again  I  shall 
have  killed  him." 

"  Did  no  one  give  him  his  drops  at  eight  o'clock  ?  " 
Caroline  asked,  severe,  with  pale,  drawn  lips. 

"  I  tell  you  no.  I  forgot  him.  Say  what  you  like 
to  me,"  Betty  cried,  fiercely  remorseful. 

"  A  little  attention  to  duty  is  worth  a  great  deal  of 
vain  regret,"  Caroline  reminded  her.  Her  own  hands 
were  shaking  as  she  chafed  those  cold  ones  of  her 
husband,  but  where  a  mild  reproof  was  needed  the 
good  woman  had  always  presence  of  mind  enough  to 
seize  the  moments'  gift. 

"  Miss  Jervois  has  neglected  nothing,"  Harringay 
said,  with  his  superior  man's  sense.  "  She  and  I 
talked  in  the  window  for  a  few  minutes  because  Mr. 
Jervois  was  tired.  Look  he  is  reviving.  I  will  stop 
for  a  little  and  help  him  up  to  bed." 

"  And  it  is  my  opinion."  he  said  to  the  curate,  when 
that  gentleman,  his  sermons  happily  off  his  hands,  for 
one  more  week,  presently  appeared,  "  he  will  never 
come  down  again." 

The  poor  man  had  fainted  again  after  the  upstairs 
journey  and  the  fatigue  of  undressing,  and  the  doctor 
had  to  be  fetched.  By  the  time  that  he  had  come  and 
gone  it  was  declared  to  be  too  late  for  Harringay's  ride 
home,  so  once  more  as  of  old  he  walked  across  with 
Carlyon  and  passed  the  night  beneath  the  curate's  roof. 


170  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

HIS   FORTUNE   IS   THE   GREAT  PERHAPS. 

HARRINGAY  was  right :  that  was  the  last  for  the 
poor  rector  of  the  library  where  the  greater  part  of 
his  life  had  been  spent.  For  a  time  there  was  still 
talk  in  his  presence  of  his  coming  down.  "  In  a  day 
or  two  when  he  recovered  from  these  horrid  faint  feel- 
ings and  would  come  down — "  "  Next  week — next 
month — when  the  weather  should  not  be  so  warm — 
and  he  came  down — " 

The  rector  listened,  saying  nothing,  but  he  knew 
that  he  would  not  come.  He  did  not  regret  it  over 
much — he  felt  better  and  stronger  without  the  daily 
exertion.  They  could  all  be  with  him  still — those  he 
wanted  ;  and  the  fact  that,  being  in  his  bedroom,  he 
could  now  exclude  unwelcome  visitors  was  a  great 
relief  to  him. 

They  had  not  always  been  admitted,  but,  without 
offence,  they  need  never  be  admitted  now.  He  had 
his  wife,  and  Betty,  and  Bill  Carlyon,  and  Harringay 
— Harringay  staying  on  at  Queen  Anne's,  as  if  the 
ten  years  that  had  passed  had  been  a  dream,  as  if  he 
had  no  home  of  his  own,  and  no  wife  anxiously  await- 
ing him  there. 

The  rector  opened  his  eyes  suddenly  upon  his  wife, 
one  day,  with  that  startled  look  with  which  he  always 
came  back  to  this  world  again  after  brief  unconscious- 
ness :  "  I  can  hear  someone  shouting,"  he  said.  "  It 


HIS  FORTUNE  IS  THE  GREAT  PERHAPS.       171 

woke  me.  That  woman — Violet — must  be  here. 
Send  her  away,  Caroline — let  Betty  come  to  me,  and 
you  send  her  away.  Tell  her  I  cannot  bear  it — that 
she  must  not  come  here." 

Caroline  went  obediently,  but  Betty,  alas,  was  no- 
where to  be  found. 

The  shouting  came  from  the  schoolroom.  It  was 
the  children's  holding  loud  converse  with  Violet ; 
telling  her  that  mamma  was  upstairs  with  papa,  who 
was  just  the  same,  thank  you  ;  that  Betty  had  gone 
out  with  Mr.  Harringay  to  see  a  squirrel — three 
squirrels  sitting  together  on  one  bough  of  the  beech- 
tree  in  the  shrubbery.  Betty  hadn't  let  them  come — 
nor  Carly,  nor  Gussy,  nor  even  Edric  who  had  cried, 
but  she  had  gone — and  had  stayed  away  all  the 
morning. 

Caroline,  with  the  air  of  putting  a  strong  pressure 
on  herself  to  keep  clown  her  just  displeasure,  set  her- 
self to  start  the  children  on  their  neglected  tasks, 
asking  Violet  to  be  good  enough  to  go  to  the  shrub- 
bery, and  fetch  back  the  truant  to  the  scene  of  her 
duty. 

Mrs.  Harringay  went  slowly  through  the  open 
window,  and  slowly  bent  her  steps  in  the  indicated 
direction.  But  the  steps  were  few  and  faltering  she 
took  toward  that  spot,  and  often  she  stopped,  seeming 
to  listen — to  listen  for  whispering  voices  when  noth- 
ing less  than  the  roaring  of  a  bull  could  have  reached 
her  ear.  And  her  face  was  pale  to  the  lips,  and  her 
eyes  were  wild  and  full  of  fear.  For  quite  a  long  time 
she  stood,  irresolute,  on  the  sunlit  lawn.  The  branches 
of  the  beech  which  had  held  the  squirrels  were 
stretched  high  above  the  laurels  and  box-trees  among 
which  it  grew,  but  the  path  among  the  shrubs  was 


172  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

hidden  from  her  view.  Violet  turned  her  back  res- 
olutely upon  the  beech  tree,  and  looked  back  at  the 
house,  square  and  red-bricked  and  creeper-covered.  It 
had  been  the  scene  of  her  own  happiest  hours,  the 
brief  romance  of  her  youth  had  been  acted  there — she 
saw  it  through  scalding  tears. 

"  I  am  the  most  unhappy  woman  on  God's  earth  !  " 
she  said. 

Then,  as  if  suddenly  making  up  her  mind  to  a 
desperate  course,  she  turned  away  from  the  house, 
and  hurried  across  the  garden ;  letting  herself  through 
the  orchard  gate  into  the  church  meadow,  she  went 
with  swift  and  nervous  feet  down  the  narrow,  well- 
worn  path  to  Queen  Anne's. 

The  curate,  as  it  happened,  was  returning  from 
his  parish  rounds.  Entering  his  garden  by  another 
gate,  he  caught  sight  of  Violet  and  came  to  meet  her. 

"  Harringay  isn't  here,"  he  said,  thinking  that  he 
divined  her  errand,  and  having  forgotten  her  deafness, 
he  had  to  repeat  the  information  two  or  three  times. 
"  You  will  find  him  at  the  rectory  with  Mr.  Jervois. 
He  is  nearly  always  with  him  now." 

Violet  shook  her  head  with  the  saddest  possible 
smile  of  superior  knowledge  :  "  He  is  at  the  rectory," 
she  said  in  her  indistinct,  whispering  voice,  "  But  not 
with  my  uncle." 

They  had  been  walking  toward  Carlyon's  house  but 
she  stopped  him  now,  and  stood  in  front  of  him,  her 
hand  upon  his  arm,  her  blue,  tear-dimmed  eyes,  whose 
appeal  he  did  not  at  all  understand,  upon  his  face. 

"  I  behaved  badly  to  you  once,"  she  said,  hesitat- 
ingly, pressing  his  arm,  "  —  but  it  is  so  long  ago,  and 
you  have  forgiven  and  forgotten.  You  would  not 
willingly  do  me  an  injury,  Mr.  Carlyon  ?" 


HIS  FORTUNE  IS  THE  GREAT  PERHAPS.      173 

He  shook  his  head  and  nodded  it,  in  an  eager  effort 
to  reassure  her. 

"  Send  my  husband  back  to  me,  then — don't  keep 
him  here." 

Carlyon  looked  at  her  in  astonishment :  "  Poor  Mr. 
Jervois  likes  to  see  him,"  he  said  slowly,  "  and  Har- 
ringay  is  good-natured  enough  to  humor  him.  It 
won't  be  for  long,  Mrs.  Harringay." 

That  sorrowfully  superior  smile  of  hers,  twitching 
painfully  at  her  lips,  grew  sorrowfull}'  contemptuous 
now,  "  You  don't  suppose  it  is  for  Mr.  Jervois  he 
stays !  "  she  said,  "  Ah,  you  don't  know  him  so  well 
as  I  or  you  would  not  be  so  blind." 

The  curate  looked  at  her  in  silence,  and  as  he 
looked  the  healthy  color  of  his  face  faded  to  an  ugly 
grey.  He  made  no  other  answer  than  his  growing 
pallor,  than  the  questioning  of  his  eyes.  She  turned 
her  own  eyes  sickly  from  his  and  her  small  gloved 
hand  patted  his  arm.  nervously  several  times  to  ein- 
phazise  her  last  words.  "  Do  not  keep  him  here. 
Send  him  back  to  me,"  she  said,  and  with  no  other 
woi'd  turned  away  from  him  walked  swiftly  with 
hanging  head  to  the  carriage  awaiting  her  at  the 
rectory  gate,  and  drove  away. 

Carlyon  did  not  go  across  to  the  rectory  that  even- 
ing. He  ate  his  dinner,  or  rather  contemplated  it  as 
it  was  set  before  him,  in  solitude ;  and  afterward  with 
restless  steps  and  eyes  that  kept  watch  upon  the  path 
across  the  meadow  grass,  tracked  originally  by  his 
own  feet  and  the  little  ones  of  Betty  and  her  sisters, 
he  paced  his  garden  walks.  The  fierceness  of  the 
anger  and  the  pain  which  had  been  in  his  heart  for  a 
few  cruel  moments  had  died  out — almost.  The  habit 


174  THE  CEDAR  STAR. 

of  his  mind,  to  believe  the  best  of  evei'yone,  served 
him  faithfully  now.  "  What  we  are  that  only  do  we 
see,"  and  Bill  Carlyon  saw  everywhere  the  loyalty 
that  was  in  his  own  breast. 

She  was  jealous — the  poor  little  deaf  woman — poor 
Violet !  Her  misfortune  had  thrown  her  back  upon 
her  own  imaginings.  Even  Bill  knew  that  women 
could  be  jealous  for  nothing ;  and  Harringay  was  not 
the  sort  of  man  to  play  attentive  husband  to  an  ex- 
acting wife. 

And  Betty — had  she  from  her  babyhood  been  false 
to  a  trust,  or  forgotten  a  promise  she  had  made  ?  How 
was  it  possible  even  such  a  one  as  poor  Violet  had 
come  to  believe  of  Betty  so  hideous  a  possibility  ? 
So  the  curate,  reasoning  himself  to  calm.  And  in  the 
same  moment  lifting  a  haggard  face  to  the  sky  and 
crying  to  his  God  to  let  his  life  end  there  at  once  if 
such  a  thing  could  be  true  1 

"Why  had  he  stood  silent  when  Violet  had  dealt  that 
blow  at  his  heart  ?  Why  had  he  not  said  at  once, 
"  You  can  believe  what  you  like  of  your  own  husband, 
but  you  are  traducing  my  promised  wife  and  I  com- 
mand you  to  be  silent."  What  a  dolt  he  had  been  to 
stand  there  helpless  with  his  palsied  tongue  1 

It  was  he  who  had  been  to  blame  all  through. 
Secrecy  was  always  wrong.  Not  for  another  hour — 
let  Betty  scold  as  she  might — would  he  lend  himself 
to  that  concealment. 

The  stars  were  coming  out  slowly  in  the  deep  blue 
of  the  sky  when  Harringay  came  at  last  across  the 
meadow  path.  The  curate,  watching  by  the  gate  in 
the  soft  darkness,  found  the  man  he  looked  for  all  at 
once  startlingly  near  at  hand  ;  while  Harringay,  walk- 
ing with  down-bent  eyes,  knew  only  of  the  presence 


HIS  FORTUNE  IS  THE  GREAT  PERHAPS.      175 

of  bis  host,  when  the  gate  swung  open  at  his  ap- 
proach. 

"  They  were  wondering  what  had  become  of  you, 
to-night,  Carlyon,"  he  said  at  once.  "  They  expected 
you  across." 

"  And  I  expected  you  back  to  dinner,"  the  curate 
reminded  him. 

"  The  poor  fellow  had  another  of  those  fainting  fits 
about  the  time  I  should  have  left.  Each  time  I  think 
what  a  mercy  if  he  never  came  round.  The  women  are 
becoming  nervous  and  afraid  to  be  left.  They  stayed 
with  him  all  the  evening.  I  have  had  a  lonely  time." 

"  Mr.  Jervois  did  not  send  for  you." 

"  No.  He  is  getting  past  all  desire  but  the  desire 
to  be  let  alone.  He  is  past  thinking  of  me." 

"  I,  too,  think  he  is  past  it,"  Bill  said.  "  Peter 
should  be  here.  I  will  write  to  him  to-morrow.  I 
think  he  won't  ask  for  you  again,  Harringay." 

Harringay  was  quick  at  the  reading  of  tones.  He 
had  known  in  the  first  moment  that  Carlyon's  was 
altered. 

"  In  that  case,  perhaps,  I  had  better  be  getting 
back,"  he  said,  evenly.  "  Too  many  people  hanging 
around  would  be  an  embarrassment  to  them." 

"  I  think  so,"  the  curate  grimly  acquiesced. 

"  I'll  go  across  in  the  morning  on  the  chance  of 
saying  good-bye  to  him,  poor  fellow.  It'll  be  best  to 
clear  out  before  the  son  comes." 

"  Very  well,  Harringay,  before  you  go  there  is  a 
thing  I  have  to  tell  you.  I  have  been  thinking  to- 
night that  it  has  been — unfriendly — of  me,  perhaps 
not  to  have  told  you  before.  I  am  going  to  be  mar- 
ried to  Betty  Jervois." 

There  was  silence  for  only  a  thought  longer  than 


176  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

that  which  is  usual  in  friendly  converse,  and  Harriii- 
gay  asked  :  "  Has  this  been  so  for  long  ?  " 

"  For  long  before  you  came.  Since  almost  as  soon 
as  she  came  back." 

There  was  another  scarcely  perceptible  pause,  be- 
fore Harringay  said  in  his  equable  voice, 

"  I  congratulate  you,  Carlyon." 

The  curate  thanked  him  gently.  "  Aren't  you 
coming  in  ?  "  he  asked,  for  the  open  door  was  reached 
and  Harringay  had  drawn  back  from  the  light  that 
streamed  forth. 

"  Not  for  a  minute,"  he  said.  And  so  the  curate 
entered  alone,  leaving  the  other  man  standing  lonely 
beneath  the  stars. 

In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  also  came  into  the 
study  :  "  It's  a  glorious  night  for  a  ride,  Bill.  I've 
told  your  man  to  put  the  saddle  on  my  mare,  and  I'll 
get  off  at  once,  I  think.  A  gallop  under  the  stars  is 
preferable  to  one  in  the  blazing  sun." 

The  curate  did  by  no  means  try  to  postpone  his 
departure,  but  he  felt  severely  uncomfortable,  for  the 
moment  in  the  less  enviable  position  of  the  two. 

"  Can  I  give  any  farewell  messages  at  the  rectory  ?" 
he  asked ;  and  Harringay  answered  as  he  lit  his  cigar : 

"  Oh  no.  They  are  too  much  distressed  just  now  to 
miss  me.  I  shan't  be  leaving  Edmundsbury  for  a 
week,  I  dare  say.  At  the  end  of  that  time — " 

He  stopped,  pulling  at  the  cigar  which  did  not  light 
very  easily.  He  had  been  about  to  say  that  at  the 
end  of  the  week  he  should  go  to  Paris,  but  a  timely 
recollection  came  to  him  of  a  former  occasion  when, 
on  parting  with  William  Carlyon  he  had  made  that 
announcement,  and  he  was  silent. 

In  the  minute  that  followed  they  heard  the  mare's 


HIS  FORTUNE  IS  THE  GREAT  PERHAPS.      177 

hoofs  on  the  gravel  as  she  was  led  past  the  window  to 
the  front  door. 

"  Well,  I'll  say  good-bye,  Bill,"  Harringay  said. 

Their  hands  touched  and  fell  loosely  apart,  and 
Harringay  turned  to  the  door.  There  he  paused  for 
a  minute,  sucking  at  the  refractory  cigar,  not  looking 
back  into  the  room  : 

"  I  thank  you  for  your  confidence,  you  know,  al- 
though it's  a  little  late,  and  was  a  trifle  hurried  when 
it  came,"  he  said.  "  You're  a  very  good  fellow,  Car- 
lyon.  Sometimes  I  have  thought  you  are  the  best 
fellow  I  have  ever  met.  And  so  I  hope  you'll  get 
your  deserts,  and  be  happy.  I'm  sure  I  hope  that." 

Then  he  went  out. 

The  curate  followed  him  to  the  door :  "  What  I 
have  told  you  to-night  is  no  longer  a  secret,"  he  said. 
"  Perhaps  Mrs.  Harringay  will  be  interested  to  hear 
it.  You  are  at  liberty  to  tell  her." 

Harringay  did  not  express  gratification  at  that 
privilege  :  "  Women  generally  know  these  things.  I 
dare  say  she  knows  already,"  he  said  indifferently. 

"  She  did  not  know  this  morning.  I  regretted — too 
late — that  I  did  not  tell  her,"  Carlyon  said,  and  the 
other  man  paused  with  his  foot  in  the  stirrup,  and 
listened  to  those  few  words  with  evident  attention. 

Then  he  flung  himself  into  his  saddle,  and  rode 
away. 

It  was  on  the  morning  after  Harringay's  departure 
that  the  rector  opened  his  eyes,  after  brief  uncon- 
sciousness, upon  his  daughter  sitting  by  his  side,  and, 
smiling  upon  her  with  a  smile  whose  light  Betty  never 
remembered  to  have  seen  on  his  face  before,  addressed 
her  by  the  name  of  her  dead  mother. 
12 


178  TEE  CEDAR  STAB. 

"  What  makes  you  so  sad,  Elizabeth  ? "  he  asked, 
and  held  out  to  the  girl  a  feeble  hand,  which  Betty, 
awed  and  silent,  took  in  her  own.  "  The  children  are 
all  well — your  little  Ian  is  well,  why  should  you  be 
sad  ?  "  he  repeated. 

He  looked  at  his  daughter  still  for  a  moment  with 
transfigured  face,  and  in  his  eyes  such  light  of  love  as 
had  never  been  there  for  her  : 

"  Father,"  she  said  brokenly.  "  Father,  clear,  you 
are  dreaming." 

She  coaxed  and  kissed  the  wasted  hand  she  held, 
and  her  tears  fell  fast  upon  it.  When  she  looked  up 
again  the  light  on  the  dying  face  had  faded,  all  the 
rapture  was  gone  from  the  gaze. 

44  Did  I  say  anything  ? "  he  asked ;  and,  after  a 
pause,  "  I  think  I  was  dreaming  of  your  mother, 
Betty.  You  grow  like  her  of  late,  my  dear." 

Then  he  bade  her  fetch  his  keys,  and  he  put  into 
her  hand  a  certain  one  telling  her  to  which  drawer  in 
his  writing-table  it  belonged :  "  The  rest  are  for — 
anyone.  That  is  for  you  alone,"  he  said,  and  she  saw 
the  slow  tears  steal  from  closed  lids  upon  his  cheek. 
44  Rubbish — only  rubbish,  Betty,  but  you  will  know 
what  to  do  with  it,  my  dear." 

All  through  the  day  his  mind  wandered  and  he  was 
restless  unless  Betty  held  his  hand  in  hers.  They 
told  him  that  Peter  was  coming,  and  he  said  at  once 
he  was  glad,  and  he  hoped  that  his  other  children 
were  coming  too.  Caroline,  jealous  for  her  little  boj's, 
recalled  to  his  memory  that  his  children  had  already 
bidden  him  good-morning  and  would  certainly  come 
in  again  to  say  good-night.  He  took  no  sort  of  heed 
of  this  remark,  and  it  was  evident  to  all,  that  it  was 
of  the  children  of  his  3Touth  he  was  thinking. 


HIS  FORTUNE  IS  THE  GREAT  PERHAPS.       179 

"  Emily  is  in  German}1-,  dear  father,"  Betty  said, 
"  we  will  send  for  her  at  once,  if  you  would  like  her  to 
come." 

It  seemed  that  this  speech  also  fell  on  deaf  ears. 

Presently  they  heard  him  whisper  lan's  name  to 
himself  with  an  indulgent  smile,  and  Caroline,  who 
thought  it  her  duty  to  dispel  all  illusions,  even  those 
of  a  deathbed,  bent  over  him  : 

"Ian  is  in  heaven,  dear,"  she  said.  "You  will 
know  your  little  Ian  in  heaven,  Eustace." 

He  opened  dull  eyes  upon  her,  wondering. 

"In  heaven?  Ian?"  he  asked,  "  Oh,  no,  the  chil- 
dren are  playing  in  the  garden,  and  Ian  has  just  now 
called  to  me  through  the  window." 

A  telegram,  to  hasten  his  arrival,  was  sent  to  Peter, 
but  before  he  could  reach  Blow  Weston  rectory,  his 
father  was  dead. 


180  THE  CEDAR  STAR. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

A   CONTRADICTION   STILL. 

PETER  JERVOIS  and  the  curate  sought  Betty  on  the 
day  after  the  funeral  and  found  her  listlessly  pacing 
the  garden  paths. 

"  I  thought  Betty  would  have  borne  up  better," 
Peter  said,  looking  at  the  wan  face,  the  dejected  gait 
of  his  sister,  "  She  must  have  been  thoroughly  pre- 
pared." 

"  I  suppose  such  events  can  never  find  us  prepared," 
the  curate  said,  and  having  delivered  himself  of  that 
trite  observation  went  up  to  his  affianced  and  took  her 
hand. 

"  I  have  been  telling  Peter  of  our  engagement,"  he 
said.  "You  don't  object  to  its  being  known  now, 
dear  ? " 

"Object?  Oh,  I  suppose  not,"  Betty  said,  in  the 
hopeless  tone  of  one  whom  nothing  further  can  stir  to 
emotion  of  any  kind. 

"  Yes — but  why  couldn't  you  have  told  me  your- 
self— and  at  once  ?  "  Peter  asked,  a  little  aggrieved. 
"  It  would  have  made  things  a  lot  more  comfortable 
for  me,  and  jollier  all  round." 

"  Would  it  ?  "  she  asked  indifferently,  "  I  don't  see 
in  what  way.  I  am  going  back  to  you  at  Wilmington 
Terrace,  all  the  same,  Peter.  I  have  lost  nearly  a 
year  at  the  Art  School  which  I  mean  to  make  up." 

"  But  Peter,  for  his  part,  has  something  to  tell  you, 
Betty,"  the  curate  interposed. 


A    CONTRADICTION  STILL.  181 

"  Since  you  are  so  comfortably  fixed  up,  Betty,  I 
mean  to  fling  up  the  office  and  off  go  to  the  Congo," 
Peter  explained  eagerly. 

Then  he  told  how  the  chance  to  do  this  had  been 
given  him  by  a  certain  Sir  Thomas  Ke3res,  a  college 
friend  of  his  father's,  who  had  shown  kindness  to  the 
brother  and  sister  in  the  Wilmington  Terrace  days, 
and  who,  in  the  matter  of  butterflies,  beetles,  and 
centipedes  had  tastes  identical  with  Peter's  own. 

"  His  son  and  another  man  are  going,  and  if  I  like 
I  can  go  too,"  Peter  said  with  his  eyes  shining,  "  and 
I  do  like.  I  should  have  stayed  on  for  you  if  you  had 
wanted  me,  Betty,  but  I'm  precious  glad  I  can  get 
away." 

And  "  precious  glad  "  he  looked  as  his  sister  saw. 

The  flowers  that  had  lain  on  the  rector's  coffin,  lay 
sweetly  odorous  and  unfaded  still  on  the  yellow  soil 
of  his  grave ;  but  his  father  had  been  little  more  than 
a  name  to  Peter  for  many  years,  and  the  gratification 
of  a  darling  wish  is  matter  for  rejoicing  though  the 
warning  that  man  hath  but  a  short  time  to  live  and  is 
full  of  sorrow,  be  still  ringing  in  the  ears.  The  young 
man,  as  he  walked  the  garden  paths  with  his  sister 
and  the  curate,  woke  up  into  a  lively  and  intellectual 
being.  What  had  been  locked  up  in  his  heart  so  long 
— his  hatred  for  his  work,  his  longing  to  see — not  life 
in  its  usual  sense — but  the  world  and  its  creations,  the 
bitterness  and  regret,  and  secret  rebellion  of  the  past, 
and  the  joyful  anticipation  of  a  future  at  last  within 
his  grasp — these  things  fell  in  convincing,  forceful 
language  from  his  lips.  His  eyes  were  suffused  with 
light,  there  was  the  ring  of  promising  young  man- 
hood in  his  voice.  A  different  being  this  from  the 
sullen,  gloomy-browed  young  fellow  who  had  gone 


182  THE  CEDAR  STAR. 

doggedly,  morning  after  morning,  to  bated  work  at 
his  desk. 

As  for  Betty,  she  could  but  be  thankful  that  he  re- 
joiced, but  for  herself,  hopelessness  lay  heavj7  upon 
her  soul.  Caroline  drawing  the  tight  lip  of  reserve 
over  the  stored  memories  of  Betty's  neglcctfulness, 
had  taken  her  children  once  more  under  her  own  man- 
agement. No  duties  were  apportioned  to  the  incon- 
stant Betty  any  more.  No  place  in  the  household 
seemed  to  be  hers.  She  longed  to  be  away  from  it ; 
thinking  to  leave  her  unrest  and  discontent  and  the 
secret  unceasing  harassment  of  thought  and  confusion 
of  feeling  behind  her.  Peter  had  seemed  her  only 
refuge — and  now,  Peter  had  failed  her!  For  Bill 
Carlyon — Bill  to  whom,  naturally,  from  babyhood 
she  had  turned  in  any  difficulty  or  sorrow — Bill  had 
become  something  of  a  terror  to  her  in  these  later 
days  of  perplexity. 

When  Peter  went  indoors  to  pack  his  portmanteau 
for  returning,  Betty  would  have  followed  him  but  that 
the  curate  stopped  her. 

"  Why  do  you  want  to  run  away  from  me  ? "  he 
asked.  "  You  used  not  to  run  away.  Betty." 

She  pulled  herself  from  the  hand  he  would  have 
laid  on  her  shoulder,  and  looked  at  him,  frowning,  with 
resentment,  almost  aversion,  in  her  eyes.  "  Because  I 
hate  to  be  petted  and  comforted,"  she  said.  "  I  won't 
be  comforted.  I  am  not  a  baby  any  longer.  What  I 
have  got  to  bear,  I  can  bear.  I  wish  to  be  left  alone." 

He  had  to  forgive  the  cruelty  of  the  words  when 
they  finished  with  the  old  childish  break-down  into 
sobbing  he  remembered  so  well. 

"  I  only  want  to  sa}r  this  to  you,"  he  said.  "  You 
are  so  determined  on  allowing  me  none  of  the  privi- 


A   CONTRADICTION  STILL.  183 

leges  which  should  be  mine,  and  I  am  too  anxious  to 
please  you  even  in  this  to  claim  them,  that  it  is  possi- 
ble you  might  forget :  You  are  first  with  me  in  all 
the  world.  And  it  is  a  world  where,  you  see,  Betty, 
even  Peter  has  to  think  of  himself.  I  insist  on  this 
now — although  you  ought  to  know  it  well — because 
you  seem  to  think  that  others — Caroline  and  her  chil- 
dren— can  weigh  with  me  against  you.  When,  if  you 
were  on  one  side,  the  whole  universe  could  not  turn 
the  scale  on  the  other.  You  are  the  universe  as  far  as 
I  am  concerned.  Can't  you  try  to  understand  ?  " 

"  I  understand,  of  course,"  she  said.  "  You  are  ab- 
surdly good  to  me.  I  wish  you  weren't  so  good  and 
perhaps  I  should  be  a  little  better.  And  yet  I  should 
not — nothing  could  make  any  difference  now.  Bill, 
you  haven't  told  Mr.  Harringay  about  this  thing, 
have  you  ?  " 

"  Our  engagement  ?     Yes.     I  told  him." 

Her  face  grew  whiter  and  her  eyes  blazed  angrily 
upon  him  :  "  You  had  no  right,"  she  said.  "  You 
had  promised  not  to  do  it.  You  have  deceived  me." 

He  looked  at  the  girl  with  her  white  hard  face  and 
the  color  of  his  own  changed,  and  his  heart  sank 
heavy  as  lead. 

"  The  news  in  no  way  concerned  your  cousin  Violet's 
husband,  but  I  told  him,"  he  said,  "  I  am  going  now 
when  I  leave  you  to  tell  my  sister  Caroline." 

"  You  can  please  yourself.  I  will  not  live  with 
Caroline  when  once  she  is  told,  remember." 

But  he  would  not  be  deterred  by  that  or  any  threat, 
and  in  less  than  half-an-hour  Caroline  was  told.  What 
passed  between  the  brother  and  sister  Betty  never 
sought  to  know,  but  the  interview  was  a  long  one,  and 
at  its  conclusion  the  curate  led  Ms  sister  into  the 


184  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

schoolroom  where  Betty  sat  alone.  Then  Caroline, 
with  her  grave  face  cold  and  set,  went  up  to  the  girl 
and  kissed  her  with  chill  lips  on  the  top  of  her  down- 
bent  head. 

"  I  hear  you  are  to  be  my  sister  as  well  as  my  step- 
daughter, Betty,"  she  said.  "  Of  course,  I  wish  you 
every  happiness." 

To  which  Betty  murmured  "  Thank  you,"  without 
lifting  her  head  and  in  no  very  responsive  tone  of 
voice,  and  Carlyon  thought  to  himself  that  his  sister 
was  comporting  herself  much  more  graciously  than 
his  betrothed. 

Caroline's  eyes,  leaving  the  figure  of  Betty,  wan- 
dered drearily  enough  round  the  familiar  room.  The 
news  she  had  just  been  told  had  filled  her  cup  of  bit- 
terness to  overflowing  she  thought.  For  more  than 
ten  years  had  she  ruled  household  and  parish  with 
authority.  It  was  a  position  she  was  in  many  ways 
well-fitted  to  fill,  and  for  which  she  naturally  believed 
herself  to  be  fully  fitted.  And  this  position  she  had 
looked  forward  to  retaining  in  her  brother's  house. 

That  idea  was  now  over.  Life — such  as  she  would 
care  to  live — was  over  too.  The  sphere  of  usefulness 
in  which  she  had  moved — and  Caroline  could  be  very 
eloquent  to  herself  on  the  subject  of  her  sphere  and 
her  usefulness — was  to  be  hers  no  longer.  Her  chil- 
dren must  leave  to  the  home  in  which  they  had  been 
born,  and  all  for  the  caprice  of  a  girl.  For  Betty,  whom 
Caroline,  knowing  to  the  bottom  and  through  and 
through,  as  crude  and  narrow  natures  always  do  com- 
prehend the  ins  and  outs  of  those  which  are  subtle 
and  complex,  knew  to  be  unloving,  idle,  hard,  yet 
frivolous,  the  last  woman  in  the  world  with  whom 
Mrs.  Jervois's  brother  could  find  happiness  ! 


A   CONTRADICTION  STILL.  185 

So  having  paid  the  tribute  to  Betty  which  Bill  had 
insisted  on,  she  looked  around  upon  the  home  of  which 
the  girl  had  robbed  her,  and  tears  of  grief  and  anger 
and  mortification  gathered  in  her  eyes. 

Bill,  seeing  this,  went  to  her,  and  put  his  hand  upon 
her  arm.  "  You  know,"  he  said,  "  you  and  I  are  to  be 
friends  to  the  end  of  the  chapter,  Caroline.  This  is 
not  to  make  any  difference  between  us." 

"  You  think  not  ?  "  Caroline  said,  and  slightly  shook 
her  head.  She  attempted  a  smile  for  her  brother ; 
but  the  tears  ran  down  and  then  a  sob  came ;  and 
Caroline,  pulling  out  a  hasty  handkerchief,  left  the 
room. 

Betty  turned  eagerly  upon  the  curate.  "  You  must 
give  it  up,"  she  said.  "  I  always  told  you  so,  and  I 
was  right.  This  shall  be  the  end.  You  must  give  it 
up  at  once." 

"  Never,"  Bill  said.  And,  she  sitting  in  a  position 
where  it  was  impossible  to  escape  him,  he  put  himself 
beside  her,  and  while  he  gave  her  a  long  list  of  rea- 
sons— bearing  a  strong  family  likeness  each  to  each — 
why  that  course  must  be  for  ever  and  ever  impossible, 
he  felt  the  opposition  to  his  enfolding  arm  relax. 
Presently  he  knew  with  a  boundless  delight  that 
Betty  was  resting  willingly,  even  with  a  sort  of 
abandonment  of  herself  against  him.  Touching  her 
cheek  he  found  it  wet  with  tears  and  soon  she  was 
crying  with  a  wild  unrestraint,  a  painful  intensity  of 
emotion,  in  his  arms. 

He  knew  that  her  heart  was  overburdened  in  these 
days  and  that  she  proudly  denied  herself,  when  it  was 
possible,  the  natural  relief  of  tears,  and  he  did  not  try 
to  check  her  emotion.  Now  and  again  he  touched  her 
hair  with  a  gentle  hand,  or  whispered  a  word  of  en- 


186  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

dearment  into  her  ear.  It  seemed  from  sheer  ex- 
haustion only  that  she  ceased  to  cry  at  last  and  lay 
quite  still. 

"  You're  so  good,"  she  whispered  to  him,  then.  "  So 
good — and  I'm  so  bad.  If  you  knew  how  bad,  you 
could  not  love  me  any  more.  Yet  do  love  me  a  little, 
Bill — do  love  me." 

And  Carlyon  in  the  husky  whisper  which  was  all 
that  emotion  left  him  swore  that,  let  what  would  be- 
tide, he  would  love  her  with  every  beat  of  his  heart 
while  life  remained  to  him. 

With  a  sense  of  gladness  and  a  heart  filled  with 
thanksgiving  the  curate  left  his  betrothed  that  night. 

Betty,  the  adored  woman,  was  only  Betty  the 
naughty  child  still,  passionate,  impulsive,  tyrannic, 
tempestuous,  yet,  to  him,  how  far  sweeter  than  any 
other  child  or  woman  the  earth  held — to  him  who 
knew  her,  how  surely  soft  and  loving,  how  tractable 
and  sweet !  She  would  not  be  an  easy  wife  to  man- 
age, but  he  had  no  fear  of  her  wayward  moods,  he 
knew  that  in  the  finish  she  would  come  humbly 
enough  to  his  arms,  that  he  should  feel  her  cling  to 
him  and  entreat  of  him  still  to  love  her.  Was  there  in 
all  the  world  a  woman  of  such  an  irresistible  charm  ? 

He  sat  up  late,  smoking  and  thinking  such  foolish 
lover-thoughts  in  his  study  at  Queen  Anne's,  and  in 
the  quiet  of  the  night  was  visited  by  an  inspiration. 

Why  should  Betty,  after  all,  be  condemned  to  live 
at  the  rectory  for  the  next  six  months  in  a  companion- 
ship she  hated  ?  Why  could  they  not  be  quickly  and 
quietly  married?  Why  should  not  Betty  come  home 
to  Queen  Anne's  at  once  !  The  thought  of  the  girl, 
whose  image  always  haunted  the  place,  there  in  the 


A    CONTRADICTION  STILL.  187 

flesh  as  his  wife  was  disturbing.  He  could  not  sit  still 
and  feel  the  immensity  of  it  beating  at  heart  and  brain. 
He  got  up  and  took  the  lamp  in  his  hand  and  walked 
through  the  house,  peering  into  each  empty  room  to 
see  what  it  would  look  like  when  Betty  was  there, 
trying  to  plan  his  excited  brain  what  alterations  he 
could  make  in  wall-papers  and  carpets  and  curtains 
which  had  grown  dingy  in  all  these  years. 

He  knew  that  Blow  Weston  and  Crabberton  were 
to  be  his.  With  the  seven  hundred  a  year  which 
would  come  to  him  with  the  livings,  he  would  be,  for 
a  country  parson,  rich.  The  small  income  he  had  of 
his  own,  he  could  afford  to  pay  over  to  Caroline  to 
help  in  the  bringing  up  of  her  boys,  and  nothing  need 
be  denied  to  Betty. 

He  found  it,  however,  difficult  to  picture  the  rooms 
in  more  magnificent  array ;  and  it  was  quite  possible 
that  Betty,  the  faithfullest  of  hearts,  might  not  care  to 
make  a  change — might  prefer  all  as  it  had  seemed 
desirable  to  her  child's  eyes.  And  it  need  not  be  for 
long.  When  time  had  been  given  Caroline  to  make 
her  plans,  there  would  be  the  rectory  for  Bill  Carlyon 
and  his  wife.  Only,  why  need  they  wait  for  that — 
why  should  not  the  marriage  be  at  once? 

At  once!  He  had  come  back  to  the  study,  now, 
and  he  put  down  the  lamp  on  the  table,  threw  up  the 
window  and  looked  out.  Straight  before  him,  beyond 
the  kitchen  garden  and  the  tracked  walk  in  the 
meadow  was  the  rectory  ;  he  breathed  all  sorts  of  fond 
and  foolish  messages  to  one  dear  head  beneath  that 
roof.  His  heart  was  full  of  happiness,  the  influences 
of  the  solemn  night  were  about  him,  and  he  was  very 
devout.  Who  can  say  what  prayers  floated  forth  upon 
the  darkness,  as  the  curate  leaned  forward  into  the 


188  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

night,  looking  upward  at  the  starless  sky.  When  he 
closed  the  window,  a  light  of  almost  rapture  was  upon 
his  florid,  pleasant  face,  but  his  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 
He  went  to  bed  and  tossed  there,  feverishly  but  bliss- 
fully wakeful,  till  long  past  the  dawning  of  another 
day. 

It  happened  that  his  duties  called  him  to  visit  sick 
parishioners  in  widely  differing  directions  that  morn- 
ing and  in  the  afternoon  he  had  to  take  a  funeral  for  a 
friend  in  an  adjoining  parish.  It  was  almost  five 
o'clock  before  he  was  free  to  go  across  to  the  rectory. 

He  looked  in  at  the  schoolroom  window  as  he  passed 
and  was  charmed  to  see  his  sister  sitting  there — a 
prim,  pathetic  figure  in  her  widow's  dress.  So  much 
the  better  chance  of  his  having  Betty  to  himself  I  She 
would  not  be  indoors  on  such  a  glorious  day.  He 
looked  for  her  in  all  her  favorite  haunts  of  garden, 
orchard,  plantation,  before  he  entered  the  house.  The 
garden  was  empty  and  seemed  chill  to  him  with  the 
first  breath  of  coming  autumn ;  dining  and  drawing- 
rooms  deserted.  Of  course  she  would  not  be  in  the 
library,  Carlyon  said,  and  with  a  saddening  of  his  face 
pushed  open  the  door.  But  if  the  garden  was  chill  the 
library  was  cold  and  gloomy  as  the  grave  where  its 
late  master  lay.  Carlyon  pulled  to  the  door  gently 
and  moved  away  with  a  shamed  feeling  of  relief  as 
though  he  were  escaping  from  a  friend  who  called  him. 

Then  Betty  must  be  keeping  her  own  room,  and  if 
so  she  must  be  ill.  With  a  hurried  step  he  walked 
down  the  passage  to  the  schoolroom  and  threw  open 
the  door. 

"  Is  not  Betty  well  ?  Where  is  Betty  ?  "  he  asked. 

Caroline  looked  up  calmly  into  his  anxious  face: 


A    CONTRADICTION  STILL.  189 

"  Did  you  not  know  that  Betty  is  gone  away  ?  I 
thought  of  course  she  had  sent  you  word." 

"  Gone  ?     Where  ? " 

"  To  Edmundsbury.  Violet  drove  over  for  her  this 
morning.  She  seemed  delighted  to  get  away.  Is  it 
possible  you  did  not  know  ?  " 


19fl  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE   HARRINQAYS   AT   HOME. 

WHEN  Harringay  on  the  night  of  his  sudden  depar- 
ture from  Blow  Weston  had  reached  home  he  had 
found  Violet  in  bed  and  had  not  disturbed  her.  It 
was  not  until  his  wife  came  down  to  breakfast  next 
morning  that  she  discovered  her  husband  was  in  the 
house  with  her. 

She  was  a  little  frightened,  to  tell  the  truth,  at  the 
sudden  response  to  her  desire  for  his  presence  :  she 
felt  frightened  and  shamed  and  guilty.  She  had  not 
the  art  of  concealing  her  emotions  very  successfully, 
and  it  was  with  a  flushed  face  and  eyes  that  avoided 
his  gaze,  she  went  forward  and  put  up  her  cheek  to 
be  kissed. 

"  I  thought  I  was  never  to  see  you  again,  dear," 
she  said.  "  Is  my  uncle  better  that  you  have  left 
him,  Ted?" 

"  He  is  near  his  end — if  that  is  better,"  Harringay 
said  and  sat  down  to  his  breakfast. 

"  If  I  had  known  you  were  coming — are  these  what 
you  like,  Ted,"  looking  nervously  around  upon  the 
dishes  before  him. 

He  was  not  one  to  care  greatly  for  the  pleasures  of 
the  table  at  any  time ;  he  moved  his  shoulders,  lifted 
his  brows,  threw  out  his  hands — these  gestures  being 
less  trouble  to  him  than  to  raise  his  voice  to  his  wife 
across  the  table — and  proceeded  silently  with  his 
breakfast  and  the  letters  which  lay  beside  his  plate. 


THE  HARRINGAYS  AT  HOME.  19A 

When  he  had  finished  these  latter  she  brought  hei 
cup  and  sat  by  his  side  as  was  always  her  custom. 
She  talked  to  him  with  something  more  than  her 
natural  timidity  in  her  whispering  voice,  watching  the 
thin,  clean  shaved  lips  anxiously  for  reply. 

She  told  him  the  little  news  of  household  and  of 
town.  He  learned  that  her  own  maid  whom  she  had 
brought  from  Paris  was  disgusted  with  the  dullness 
of  Edmundsbury  and  had  spoken  of  the  impossibility 
of  remaining  in  such  an  environment.  That  the 
parlor-maid  had  been  giving  trouble  by  her  behavior 
with  the  young  man  who  was  helping  in  the  garden, 
and  that  cook,  old  enough  to  be  the  young  man's 
mother,  was  horribly  jealous  and  disagreeable  in  con- 
sequence. She  had  been  impertinent  to  Yiolet,and  yes- 
terday, when  a  couple  of  the  Belton  girls  had  come  to 
lunch,  had  sent  every  dish  nearly  stone  cold  to  table. 
That  gardener  was  afraid  the  grapes  were  spoilt  for 
the  year.  They  had  not  been  sufficiently  thinned  out 
at  prunning  time — which  was  before  gardener  himself 
had  arrived  on  the  scene. 

"  Gardener  seems  never  to  be  in  fault,  and  yet  some- 
thing he  has  charge  of  is  always  going  wrong,"  Violet 
said,  who  took  such  matters  as  these  seriously  to  heart. 

Harringay  heard  the  history,  besides,  of  the  quar- 
rel of  the  vicar  of  the  parish  with  his  new  church- 
warden, and  was  informed  that  the  Irish  assistant  of 
Dr.  Edgar  had  been  discovered  once  more  in  broad 
daylight,  rolling,  dead  drunk,  down  the  high  street. 

By  the  time  the  budget  was  exhausted,  Harringay 
had  finished  his  breakfast  and  had  commenced  to  roll 
himself  a  cigarette  :  "  Let  me  do  that  for  you,  dear," 
she  said.  But  he  declined  the  attention.  Her  cigar- 
ettes were  always  ineffective  he  told  her. 


192  THE  CEDAR  STAR. 

So  she  watched  him  roll  the  cigarette  with  his 
handsome,  clever  fingers,  looking  on  longingly  the 
while ;  because  to  be  allowed  to  wait  on  him  was  her 
greatest  pleasure,  and  often  he  was  good-natured  to 
the  extent  of  letting  her  spoil  tobacco  for  him  in  her 
well-meant  efforts  to  please.  He  held  the  cigarette 
as  often  between  his  fingers  as  his  lips,  resting,  elbow 
on  table,  gently  coaxing  with  a  disengaged  finger  the 
outline  of  the  lip  where  the  moustache  should  have 
been.  He  seemed  to  be  gloomy  and  full  of  thought, 
and  Yiolet,  seeing  him  pre-occupied  held  her  peace. 

He  turned  to  her  at  length,  shooting  one  glance  at 
her  from  his  narrow  light  eyes  before  again  he  directed 
them  upon  the  silver  dish  at  the  end  of  the  table  at 
which  he  had  been  blankly  staring  for  so  long. 

"  I  came  away  from  Blow  Weston  because  they  no 
longer  seemed  to  want  me  there,"  he  remarked. 

She  said,  "  Indeed  I  "  in  a  small  voice,  and  with  a 
quick  beat  of  a  guilty  heart. 

"  Curious,  wasn't  it  ?  Not  to  want  me  !  "  he  con- 
tinued. "  You  always  want  me,  don't  you,  Vi  ?  " 

"  You  know  that  I  like  best  to  have  you  with  me," 
she  said  softly.  "  It  would  be  very  unnatural  if  I  did 
not  want  you,  Ted." 

"  I  suppose  so.  The  curate — your  old  friend,  you 
know — as  good  as  turned  me  out.  Not  very  civil  of 
him,  was  it  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Carlyon  could  never  have  done  that !  You 
must  have  misunderstood  him,  dear." 

He  gave  a  short  laugh,  stirring  a  little  in  his  chair. 
"Dear  me,  no!  He  was  explicit  enough,"  he  said. 
"  And,  by  the  way,  you  were  with  him  j'esterday 
morning,  Yiolet." 

He  turned  his  eyes  swiftly  upon  her  at  the  last 


THE  SABRING  AYS  AT  SOME.  193 

words,  and  he  kept  them,  steadily  attentive,  upon  her 
face,  although  he  saw  by  its  expression  that  his  gaze 
was  torture  to  her  just  then. 

Slowly  she  dropped  her  head  before  him,  hanging 
it  like  a  naughty  child  whose  small  sins  have  been 
discovered.  Her  delicately  tinted  cheeks  flushed  a 
painful  pink,  and  the  long  straight  lashes,  slowly  fell 
and  lay  upon  them,  veiling  the  telltale  eyes.  Not  a 
word  did  she  say,  but  her  confession  was  there  for  her 
husband  to  read  all  the  same. 

When  he  had  satisfied  himself,  he  turned  away  his 
head  with  again  the  short  monosyllabic  laugh,  but  his 
face  had  grown  hard,  and  a  look  of  angry  contempt 
was  in  his  eyes. 

She  lifted  her  head  slowly  and  sat  beside  him  with 
fingers  interlaced  waiting  for  the  punishment  she 
knew  was  coming. 

"  I  am  going  away,"  he  said  presently. 

She  started.   u  Back  to  Blow  Weston,  do  you  mean  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head  and  smiled,  not  too  pleasantly. 
"You  don't  wish  me  to  go  there,  do  you,  Vi  ? 
Farther  afield,  dear,  where  I  shall  be  out  of  mischief 
— where  you  won't  be  troubled  with  these  anxieties, 
I  am  going  back  to  Paris."  He  stopped,  took  the 
cigarette  from  his  lips,  and  with  the  hand  that  held  it, 
waved  away  the  delicate  rings  of  smoke  from  before 
his  eyes.  "  I  am  going  to  stay  there,"  he  finished. 

Violet's  face  twitched  painfully,  the  tears  started, 
smartingly,  beneath  the  lashes. 

"  I  think  you  are  cruel  to  me,"  she  said,  but  so 
softly,  with  such  an  appeal  in  her  whispering  voice. 

"  I  am  only  anxious  to  teach  you,  my  dear  Vi,  what 
you  are  so  slow  in  learning.  I  will  not — be  interfered 
with." 

13 


194  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

She  made  no  response.  A  tear  or  two  came  run- 
ning silently  over  her  cheek,  and  dropped  on  the 
straining,  clasped  fingers. 

"  Why  did  you  object  to  my  stopping  at  Carlyons' 
house  now  and  again  ?  "  he  asked  her.  "  Tell  me." 

No  answer. 

"  Don't  you  care  to  put  it  into  words  ?  Then  I  will 
do  it  for  you.  You  did  me  the  honor  to  be  jealous 
of  me — not  quite  for  the  first  time,  Vi.  It  is  a 
little  failing  of  yours,  dear.  You  remember  Maude 
Buller,  and  poor  little  Mrs.  Stroude,  and  that  fat  old 
woman  at  Rome — not  to  mention  a  score  of  other 
cases  ? " 

She  moved  closer  to  him  and  impulsively  grasped 
the  arm  that  rested  on  the  table  and  bent  her  face 
upon  his  hands.  "  I  can't  help  it,"  she  said  humbly. 
"  I  know  I  am  silly.  I  know  I  have  constantly  made 
mistakes  and  tortured  myself  for  nothing.  I  do  fight 
against  it —  It  is  because  I  love  yon  so,  Ted." 

He  smiled  with  a  contemptuous  pity,  looking  down 
upon  her,  and  he  lightly  smoothed  her  smooth  brown 
hair  with  the  little  finger  of  the  hand  that  held  the 
cigarette.  The  caress,  if  it  could  be  called  one,  was 
over  in  a  minute,  but  Violet,  humbly  grateful,  surrep- 
titiously kissed  the  coat  sleeve  she  was  holding. 

"  And  now — is  it  Caroline  Jervois,  whose  husband 
is  scarcely  cold  in  his  grave,  of  whom  you  are  jeal- 
ous ?  or  Bill's  old  housekeeper,  perhaps  the  grenadier- 
like  person  with  the  moustache  ?  Or  is  it  Betty  Jer- 
vois, who — "  a  pause  here  while  he  deliberately  ex- 
tinguished the  burnt  out  end  of  the  cigarette  in  his 
coffee  saucer — "  who  is  going  to  be  Bill's  wife  ?  " 

Violet  raised  her  head — she  could  not  hear  so  well 
with  her  eyes  hidden — her  eyes  opened  widely  and 


TEE  HARRINGAYS  AT  HOME.  195 

clung,  startled,  to  her  husband's  face :  "  Is  that  true  ?  " 
she  asked,  "  Are  you  sure  ?  " 

"  He  told  me  so  himself.  I  suppose  he  knows," 
Harringa}'  answered  indifferently.  "  He's  a  very 
good  fellow.  I  wish  him  luck,  I'm  sure.  In  the 
meantime  I  am  going  to  Paris." 

"  Not  yet.     Stay  with  me  for  a  little  while,  Ted." 

He  shook  his  head,  his  face  was  not  the  face  of  a 
man  easily  moved  by  a  woman's  pleading. 

"  You  are  going  away  to  punish  me.  Forgive  me 
instead.  It  is  only  my  being  foolish  once  more.  I 
thought  3rou  must  admire  her — and  I  was  so  much 
alone  1  I  am  ashamed.  Forgive  me,  Ted." 

"  My  dear  girl,  don't  be  abject !  I  forgive  you,  of 
course,  anything  I  suppose  must  be  forgiven  to  a 
jealous  woman." 

He  patted  the  hands  that  held  his  coat  sleeve, 
twisted  his  arm  free  of  their  grasp,  and  got  up  from 
the  table. 

"  You  won't  go  to  Paris,  Ted  ? " 

"  Not  to-day,  certainly." 

"  To-morrow  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  not  to-morrow."  He 
looked  back  at  her  from  the  door  through  which  he 
was  passing  :  "  What's  the  good  of  trying  to  keep  me 
tied  to  your  apron  strings,  Yi  ?  Don't  you  know  by 
this  time  that  you  can't  do  it  ?  " 

"  I  should  know  that,  certainly,"  Yiolet  said  to 
herself,  gazing  hopelessly  at  the  door  which  had  closed 
behind  him. 

Her  influence  over  him  had  in  the  beginning  been 
exceedingly  slight,  and  it  was  for  the  briefest  possible 
space  that  she  had  held  it,  yet  she  could  not  forget 
that  there  had  been  such  a  time.  She  could  never  be 


196  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

warned  from  striving  to  regain  what  was  irrecover- 
able, causing  herself  fresh  and  exquisite  pain  at  each 
failure. 

"  There  is  no  reason  why  married  people  should 
not  be  perfectly  happy,  if  only  they  will  leave  each 
other  alone,"  was  a  maxim  of  Ted  Harriugay's  which 
he  practised  as  well  as  preached.  But  it  was  no  sol- 
ace to  the  clinging,  dependent  nature  of  Yiolet  that 
he  gave  the  license  he  required.  The  fact  that  she 
might  go  and  come,  think  and  act,  spend  and  lend  un- 
questioned, filled  her  with  pain  and  grieving  rather 
than  pleasure.  She  would  have  loved  to  open  all  the 
trivial  stores  of  her  mind  to  him,  she  could  never  un- 
derstand that  he  was  bored  by  a  faithful  recital  of  the 
details  of  the  day.  Nothing  that  he  said  to  her  of 
himself  could  have  been  too  minute  to  interest  her, 
but  he,  who  had  guaged  the  shallow  depths  of  his 
wife's  understanding  even  in  those  days  when  he  had 
fancied  himself  in  love  with  her,  had  never  attempted 
to  make  a  companion  of  her,  shutting  his  lips  tightly 
over  the  things  that  had  a  meaning  for  him,  and  main- 
taining a  contemptuous  silence  upon  the  subjects  that 
Violet  made  her  own. 

She  sat  for  long  after  he  had  left  her  silently  brood- 
ing over  her  new  cause  of  offence  she  had  given  him 
— her  last,  and  as  it  seemed  at  present,  her  chiefest 
mistake.  She  was  deeply  ashamed  of  herself,  and  it 
was  a  feeling  to  which  she  was  sadly  accustomed. 
Her  husband,  who  was  never  cruel  to  her,  or  cross, 
even — nearly  always  forbearing  and  kind — had  a 
knack  of  making  her  feel  ashamed. 

The  jealousy  which  had  gnawed  so  cruelly  at  her 
heart  as  she  sat,  lonely,  in  Edmundsbury,  while  her 
husband  tended  the  sick  bed  of  her  uncle  at  Blow 


THE  HASHING  AYS  AT  HOME.  197 

Weston,  had  been  more  absurd,  more  utterly  ground- 
less— she  saw  it  now — than  that  which  had  made  the 
thought  of  the  big  coarse  creature  whose  picture  he 
had  painted  in  Rome,  a  torturing  thought  to  her.  It 
had  been  more  ridiculous  than  that  which  had  come 
between  pretty  Maude  Bullen,  her  kindest,  truest 
friend,  and  herself.  Far  more  unworth}'  of  her  than 
all  the  other  fears  and  torments  which  her  deafness 
and  her  foolish  imaginings  had  manufactured  for  her. 
Surely  by  now  she  should  have  grown  accustomed  to 
her  husband's  pursuit  of  an3^thing — man,  woman,  or 
idea — which  promised  for  the  time  being,  to  afford 
him  interest.  While  the  attraction  lasted,  he  was  not 
to  be  turned  aside.  It  had  never  lasted  long.  There 
was  nothing  to  be  afraid  of. 

And  to  have  been  jealous  of  Betty  Jervois !  The 
little  girl  she  had  loved  in  her  own  happy  girlhood. 
The  promised  wife  of  Bill  Carlyon  !  How  strange 
that  seemed.  What  a  curious  readjustment  of  ideas 
it  necessitated  ! 

She  had  grown  to  have  a  certain  prescience  of  what 
would  be  likely  to  attract  her  husband.  At  the  first 
sight  of  Betty  with  her  fine,  full  figure,  her  round 
white  cheeks,  her  grey,  black-shadowed  eyes,  now  pas- 
sionate, now  sullen,  her  thickly  waving,  dark  red 
hair,  she  had  felt,  with  the  familiar  shrinking  of  the 
heart,  that  Ted  would  admire  her.  When  he  had  be- 
come such  a  frequent  visitor  at  Blow  Weston  she  had 
not  for  a  moment  doubted  the  cause.  His  kindness 
to  a  sick  man  ?  He  was  quite  capable  of  kindness, 
but — she  knew  her  husband! 

And  although  she  was  ashamed  of  the  jealousy  she 
had  felt  she  knew  him  still.  The  ministering  to  no 
sick  bed  would  have  claimed  him  so  long.  It  had 


198  THE  CEDAR  STAR. 

been  Betty.  He  had  liked  to  look  at  her,  to  watch 
her.  The  quick  changes  of  temperament  had  inter- 
ested and  amused  him — her  headlong  wrath,  her  quick 
repentance,  her  strength  and  weakness,  the  sunshine 
and  the  storm  of  her  nature  !  Perhaps  he  had  wished 
to  make  a  picture  of  her — where  was  the  harm  ? 
Betty  Jervois !  The  little  child  Betty  of  Harringay's 
and  Violet's  youth,  the  promised  wife  of  Bill  Carlyon 
whom  both  had  wronged  ! 

In  the  week  that  intervened  between  Harringay's 
return  to  his  wife  and  the  funeral  of  the  rector  of 
Blow  Weston,  Yiolet  did  not  cease  to  feel  and  to  show 
contrition,  and  her  husband,  although  he  still  held  out 
the  threat  of  Paris  did  not  go.  In  those  days,  too,  the 
project  slowly  formed  itself  in  Violet's  mind  which 
she  ultimately  successfully  carried  out.  If  she  asked 
Betty  Jervois  to  stay  with  her  after  her  father's  death 
it  must  prove  conclusively  to  all  concerned  that  she 
could  not  possibly  be  jealous  of  her.  If  Betty  yielded 
to  her  request  it  was  just  possible  that  Ted  might  not 
go  away. 

And  this  plan,  fearful  that  she  might  not  be  able  to 
achieve  it,  she  kept  in  the  secrecy  of  her  own  mind, 
pleasing  herself  by  imagining  the  surprise  she  would 
give  to  her  husband  when  she  brought  him  Betty 
Jervois  as  a  visitor  beneath  his  roof. 


I  WONDER   WHY  YOU  CAME.  199 


CHAPTER  XI. 

I  WONDER  WHY   YOU  CAME. 

"  I  WAS  not  sure  you  would  care  to  leave  home  so 
soon,  but  I  thought  the  change  of  scene  might  do  }rou 
good  ;  and  I  shall  be  so  pleased  to  have  you  with  me," 
Violet  said,  as  they  sat  side  by  side  in  the  carriage  on 
their  homeward  way. 

"  If  you  knew  how  thankful  I  am  to  come  ! "  Betty 
responded  with  a  fervor  there  could  be  no  mistaking. 
"  It  is  no  compliment  to  you,  Violet,  for  I  would  go 
anywhere — anywhere  to  get  away  from  Caroline." 

On  their  arrival  Violet  sought  her  husband  in  the 
room  which  had  been  fitted  up  for  his  use  as  a  studio 
in  the  days  when  his  mother  had  first  welcomed  the 
idea  that  her  son  was  destined  to  become  a  great 
artist.  He  had  been  quite  a  boy  then  and  he  and  his 
mother  had  lavished  monej7  without  stint  on  its  decora- 
tion. The  result  was  a  sumptuousness  which  accorded 
little  with  his  taste  of  to-day,  but  to  which,  remember- 
ing its  origin,  he  submitted  without  a  thought  of 
change. 

One  of  his  many  unfinished  canvases  was  arranged 
upon  an  easel,  and  he  stood  before  it,  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  and  his  pipe  in  his  mouth  when  his  wife 
came  into  the  room.  He  had  stood  so  for  longer  than 
he  knew,  thinking  not  at  all  of  the  picture — an  unsat- 
isfactory effort  enough,  discarded  long  ago.  He  had 
almost  no  illusions  about  his  place  as  an  artist.  He 
had  money  and  many  friends  and  influence  of  a  kind, 


200  TEE  CEDAR  STAB. 

and  men  Lad  lied  to  him  about  his  work.  For  a  time 
their  words  had  been  agreeable,  but  he  had  always 
known  that  they  lied.  The  saving  grace  was  his  of 
an  honest  discontent  with  himself  and  all  his  works. 
He  knew  that  men  did  worse — sold  worse,  exhibited 
worse  on  gallery  walls,  but  the  fact  did  not  reconcile 
him  to  his  own  shortcoming.  It  was  months  now 
since  he  had  done  more  than  make  sketches  for  pic- 
tures never  commenced.  It  was  not,  therefore,  for  the 
sake  of  the  art  to  which  it  should  have  been  devoted 
that  he  now  frequented  his  studio.  But  solitude 
suited  his  present  mood,  and  in  the  studio  he  could 
generally  command  it. 

So  he  stood  and  stared  without  seeing  it  at  the  un- 
satisfactory attempt  before  him — the  picture  of  an 
ugly,  black-browed  woman  with  a  red  apron  slung 
about  her  shoulders,  and  a  black-headed  baby  at  her 
breast.  And  the  thought  which  had  been  with  him 
day  and  night  of  late,  and  from  which  he  no  longer 
attempted  even  to  escape,  hammered  relentlessly  at 
his  brain ;  the  thought  of  a  temptation  which  might 
prove  too  strong  for  him  yet,  which  he  could  not  make 
up  his  mind  to  put  irrevocabty  behind  him  for  ever — 
of  the  dastard  and  villain  it  was  possible,  circum- 
stances assisting,  he  might  become — the  scoundrel, 
traitor,  outcast,  such  as  decent  men  must  spit  upon ! 

Then  the  door  opened  and  his  wife  came  in,  walked, 
in  her  becoming  slight  mourning,  a  very  delicate 
agreeable  vision — over  the  rugs  and  the  polished 
floor. 

He  did  not  turn  to  look  at  her,  he  knew  very  well 
who  was  there ;  the  light,  uncertain  step,  the  soft  un- 
obtrusive rustle  of  silk-lined  garments  filled  him  with 
an  impatience  and  an  irritation  that  showed  itself  in 


I   WONDER    WHY  YOU  CAME.  201 

his  face.  He  bent  nearer  to  the  picture  to  hide  that 
exhibition  and  she  laid  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

"  Ted,  I  have  brought  homo  some  one  to  stay  with 
us,"  she  said,  "  guess  who  it  is,  dear." 

But  he  declined  to  guess,  or  to  exhibit  the  faintest 
curiosity  about  Violet's  visitor,  and  she  had  to  tell  him. 

"  It  is  Betty  Jervois.  She  looks  so  pale  and  weary, 
poor  child.  I  thought  the  little  change  might  do  her 
good.  She  was  so  glad  to  come,  Ted." 

He  lifted  the  picture  from  the  easel,  and  holding  it 
for  a  minute  close  to  his  eyes,  returned  it  to  its  posi- 
tion face  downward,  as  if  unable  to  endure  the  sullen 
scowl  of  the  black-browed  woman  for  an  instant  longer. 
Then  he  turned  to  his  wife. 

"  What  possessed  you  to  do  that  ?  "  he  asked  her 
roughly.  She  did  not  catch  the  words  but  the  expres- 
sion of  his  face  showed  her  that  all  was  not  right. 
He  looked  at  her  so  curiously  that  she  was  uneasy 
and  began  to  falter  forth  excuses. 

"  J  hope  j'ou  will  not  mind,"  she  said,  "  I  thought 
perhaps  you  would  be  pleased,  dear.  It  will  be  a 
little  change  for  me  too,  Ted." 

He  nodded  his  head,  as  accepting  her  explanation. 
"Ob,  as  you  like — very  well,"  his  lips  said. 

"  You  have  thought  better  about  running  away  so 
quickly,  dear  ?  " 

"  To  Paris  ?  I  had  been  thinking  of  stopping  till 
next  week.  I  have  changed  my  mind.  I  shall  go  to- 
morrow." 

"  Oh  Ted !  Now  ?  If  I  had  known  that  I  never 
would  have  invited  Betty  Jervois." 

"  I  wonder  why  in  God's  name  you  did  invite  her !  " 
he  said  ;  but  he  had  turned  his  back  on  her  and  she 
did  not  hear. 


202  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

She  watched  him  for  a  minute  as  he  threw  open  a 
portfolio  standing  on  a  chair,  and  began  to  hunt 
irritably  therein  for  something  he  apparently  did  not 
find,  then  with  a  sigh  she  turned  away.  She  was  dis- 
appointed in  that  she  had  meant  to  please  him  and  to 
make  him  pleased  with  her,  and  had  failed ;  but  re- 
lieved because  her  heart  must  now  be  set  entirely  at 
rest  about  that  jealous  imagining  of  hers. 

When  his  wife  had  left  him  Harringay  ordered  his 
horse  and  rode  away  by  himself,  away  from  Ed- 
mundsbury,  many  a  mile  along  lonely  country  roads. 
Violet  and  Betty,  seeing  the  horse  led  round,  went  to 
the  window  and  watched  him  mount.  Violet,  dis- 
mayed at  his  want  of  civility  in  not  having  come  for- 
ward to  welcome  his  guest,  redoubled  her  own  atten- 
tions, endeavoring  to  compensate  Betty  for  the  dis- 
courtesy of  the  host.  But  while  she  smiled  and 
whispered  her  little  speeches  of  welcome  and  of  af- 
fection she  thought  in  her  heart,  that  here  was  another 
mistake  she  had  made,  and  that  Ted  was  this  time 
seriously  annoyed. 

"  Now,"  said  Harringay,  mentally  addressing  the 
good  horse  beneath  him,  as,  watched  by  the  women, 
he  cantered  through  the  drive  gates  and  turned  on  to 
the  road.  "  If  you  will  manage  to  break  my  neck  be- 
fore you  carry  me  home  again,  Prince  Otto,  you'll  do  a 
thing  to  be  proud  of  among  horses  for  ever,  and  will 
prove  yourself  of  infinite  service,  not  only  to  your 
master  but  to  your  master's  friends." 

But  Prince  Otto  missed  that  opportunity  for  glory 
— and  Harringay,  for  his  part,  did  not  set  him  to  race 
a  train  or  to  gallop  down  the  sides  of  a  sandpit,  which 
things  he  might  have  done,  had  he  been  serious  in 


/  WONDER   WHY  YOU  CAME.        .         203 

his  exhortation — and  man  and  horse  arrived  home  in 
good  time  for  dinner,  with  fair  appetites  and  without 
accident  to  flesh  or  bone. 

"  Violet  tells  me  you  are  going  away  to-morrow," 
Betty  said  to  him,  when,  a  few  minutes  before  dinner, 
he  came  into  the  room  where  she  was  sitting  alone. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  sullenly,  "  I  am  going." 

He  took  up  a  new  illustrated  paper  which  lay  on  a 
table  between  them  and  began  to  turn  over  the  leaves. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  Betty,  and,  engrossed  in  the 
paper  he  made  no  reply. 

She  watched  what  could  be  seen  of  his  expression- 
less face  for  a  while  in  silence.  Then  : 

"  Shall  you  be  away  all  the  time  I  am  here,  Mr. 
Harringay  ?  "  she  asked  him. 

"  In  all  probability,  Miss  Jervois." 

"  It  would  be  polite  of  you  to  say  you  also  were 
sorry,"  she  said  with  impatience. 

"  Polite  ? "  he  repeated,  leaning  closer  over  the 
paper.  "  But  if  I  prefer  to  be  safe  ? " 

She  drew  back  a  little  at  that,  and  he  went  on  turn- 
ing over  the  pages  of  his  sketch. 

"  It  would  be  '  polite ?  of  me  to  congratulate  you 
on  your  engagement,  perhaps?"  he  said,  suddenly 
lifting  his  face. 

"  It  would  be  not  only  polite  but  kind,"  she  replied 
with  spirit. 

u  Then  will  you  accept  my  congratulations  ? " 
Harringay  asked,  and  threw  the  paper  on  the  table 
and  got  up  as  if  that  were  the  finish  of  the  matter. 
But  having  turned  his  back  on  her  and  walked  over 
to  the  window  he  came  slowly  back  again  and  stood 
before  her.  "  Carlyon  is  the  best  fellow  the  world 
holds — and  my  dear  friend,"  he  said  in  an  altered 


204  THE  CEDAR  STAR. 

voice.      "  He  deserves  his  luck.     I  can't  say  more  for 
him  than  that." 

Then  Betty  thanked  him  without  effusion,  and 
Violet  came  into  the  room,  and  soon  they  went  to 
dinner. 

Later  Violet  went  to  the  piano.  She  could  not 
sing  now,  but  her  touch  was  ever  plaintive  and  sweet. 
On  those  occasions  when  husband  and  wife  passed  an 
evening  tete-a-tete,  Harringay  kept  her  playing  to 
him.  It  was  soothing  to  the  nerves  and  it  spared 
him  the  trouble  of  talking  to  her. 

Since  dinner  the  conversation  between  the  two  wo- 
men had  flagged  a  good  deal.  Betty  was  tired  ;  the 
effort  to  make  herself  heard  by  her  hostess  was  too 
great  a  strain  on  her.  Harringay  neither  joined  in, 
nor  did  he  appear  to  listen.  It  was  a  relief  to  the 
visitor  when  the  music  began. 

"  Keep  on  playing,  Violet,  please,"  she  said,  forget- 
ful that  Violet,  with  her  back  to  her,  could  not  hear. 

She  lay  back  in  her  chair,  with  dreaming,  listening 
face,  her  half-closed  eyes  upon  the  fire.  Perhaps  she 
was  unconscious  that  Harringay's  gaze  had  strayed 
from  the  book  in  his  hand,  and  rested  upon  her  face. 
She  was  a  lovely  woman  just  then,  and  she  looked  as 
unconscious  as  if  she  had  been  a  lovely  child.  But  it 
is  not  safe  to  trust  too  entirely  in  a  woman's  pose. 

Violet,  in  her  corner  at  the  piano,  her  back  to  the 
long  room,  played  on.  Violet's  husband  got  up  from 
his  place  and  sat  himself  down  in  the  chair  his  wife 
had  vacated  by  Betty's  side. 

"  Am  I  to  go  to-morrow  ?  "  he  asked  her,  leaning 
forward,  with  bent  head,  fingering  a  long  streamer  of 
black  ribbon  that  fell  from  the  belt  at  Betty's  waist. 


I  WONDER    WHY  YOU  CAME,  205 

The  skin  of  her  face  and  throat  grew  pink,  and  her 
breast  heaved,  she  made  him  no  other  answer. 

"  You  shall  decide,"  he  said,  so  low  that  she  hardly 
caught  the  words.  "  It  shall  be  as  you  wish." 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  whispered  faintly,  "  I  don't 
know." 

"  Do  you  wish  me  to  go  ? " 

No  answer. 

"  Betty,  do  you  wish — " 

Violet  swung  round  upon  the  music-stool : 

"  Don't  you  like  those  queer  little  bits  of  Greig's  I  " 
she  asked  of  the  back  of  Betty's  head. 

And  Harringay  signalled  to  her  with  a  quick  nod 
or  two,  and  a  rather  artificial-looking  smile.  "  Yes," 
— that  they  liked  them  very  much  indeed — that  she 
was  to  go  on — to  give  them  some  more  of  Greig. 

He  waited,  watching  his  wife,  till  Greig  began 
again,  then  leaned  forward,  resuming  his  old  position, 
but  he  ceased  to  look  at  the  ribbon  in  his  fingers  now, 
looked  instead  in  Betty's  face. 

"  I  wonder  why  you  came  here  ?  "  he  said. 

Betty  strove  vainly  for  her  familiar  flippancy  : 

"  I  hoped  I  should  be  welcome,"  she  said,  low  and 
breathless  for  all  her  effort  to  be  calm. 

"  To  me  ?     Did  you  think  of  me  ?  " 

"  Of  course.  How  could  I  come  to  your  house  and 
not  think  of  you  ?  " 

"  But  it  is  of  Carlyon  you  should  have  thought.  It 
is  of  him — poor  fellow  ! — that  I  think  in  those  rare 
pauses  in  my  consciousness  when  I  am  not  thinking 
of — some  one  else.  Women  are  different,  I  sup- 
pose." 

Betty  pouted  her  lips — such  tempting,  full  red  lips, 
tremulous  just  now,  too,  like  a  child's  : 


206  THE  CEDAR  STAR. 

"  It  is  not  in  my  bargain  to  think  always  of  Mm," 
she  said. 

And  then  one  of  her  quick  compunctions  seized  her, 
the  instinct  of  faithfulness  to  her  childhood's  friend 
reasserting  itself  against  the  all  but  irresistible  attrac- 
tion which  seduced  her  from  her  loyalty. 

"  Oh,  poor  Bill !  "  she  said  hurriedly.  "  There  is  no 
one  in  the  world  like  Bill." 

And  with  that  she  got  up  from  her  chair,  went  to 
the  piano,  and  glued  herself  to  Violet's  side  for  the 
rest  of  the  evening. 


THE  MOONLIGHT  SONATA.  207 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE   MOONLIGHT    SONATA. 

THE  Reverend  William  Carlyon  had  taken  to  saddle 
exercise  of  late  for  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  mak- 
ing flesh  over  quickly,  and  he  hoped  that  riding  would 
reduce  his  lamentable  tendency  to  fat.  Betty,  walk- 
ing with  Violet  in  the  September  morning  around  the 
spick  and  span  garden  paths,  and  seeing  her  lover 
approach,  decided  at  once  that  on  horseback  Bill  cer- 
tainly did  not  look  his  best. 

"  Have  you  crawled  in  that  fashion  all  the  way  ?  " 
she  asked  him,  having  gone  forward  to  meet  him  on 
the  drive.  "  Why,  you  must  have  been  up  at  dawn 
to  get  here  !  And  your  stirrup  straps  want  lengthen- 
ing, Bill." 

"  They're  let  down  as  far  as  they'll  go.  It's  been 
preciously  uncomfortable,  Betty." 

"  It  certainly  isn't  a  pretty  sight,"  said  Betty,  fol- 
lowing an  inexplicable,  irresistible  desire  to  be  cruel 
to  the  man.  She  was  horribly  impatient  of  this  meet- 
ing. She  did  not  know  if  it  was  herself  or  Bill  that 
she  hated ;  she  only  felt  that  at  this  junction  they 
ought  to  have  been  kept  apart.  "  The  poor  thing 
isn't  equal  to  your  weight,"  she  went  on,  watching 
the  sorry  steed  led  away  when  the  curate  had  dis- 
mounted. "  It  is  positive  cruelty  to  ride  her.  I 
really  hope  you  won't  be  guilty  of  such  barbarity 
again,  Bill." 


208  THE  CEDAR  STAR. 

"  So  long  as  I'm  here  all  right,  it  doesn't  matter 
much,  I  suppose,"  said  Bill,  feeling  helpless  under  the 
injustice  of  the  attack.  Bill  Carlyon  to  be  accused 
of  cruelty  to  living  thing,  and  by  Betty  who  knew 
him  !  "  Never  mind  the  mare,  Betty." 

"  The  Harringays  will  think  you  a  rather  early 
visitor,  I'm  afraid." 

"  If  I'm  not  too  early  for  you,  I  don't  care  what  the 
Harringays  think." 

"  Why  have  you  come,  Bill?  " 

He  looked  at  her  in  surprised  reproach — they  had 
turned  into  the  garden  and  were  walking  side  by  side, 
among  the  flower  beds  in  front  of  the  house.  "  Why 
have  I  come  ?  "  he  repeated.  "  Why  did  you  go, 
rather,  Betty  ?  Where  you  are,  I  have  a  right  to  be, 
haven't  I  ?  Did  you  expect  anything  else  than  that  I 
should  come  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  "  you  haven't  given  me 
time  to  expect  anything."  Then  she  laughed  and  the 
color  came  to  her  face  :  "  You  are  evidently  of  Mr. 
Harringay's  opinion,"  she  told  him.  "  He  tells  me  I 
must  think  of  you  and  nothing  but  you — morning, 
noon  and  night." 

"  That  would  be  very  foolish  and  unnecessary,"  the 
curate  said  with  a  touch  of  stiffness.  "  Is  Harringay 
here,  then  ?  " 

"  Somewhere  here  about.  He  goes  to  Paris  directly." 

"  How  soon  is  '  directly,'  Betty  ?  " 

"  To-day,  perhaps — perhaps  to-morrow.  I  haven't 
questioned  him." 

"  Can't  we  get  away  from  all  these  staring  windows  ? 
I  have  something  particular  to  say  to  you." 

"  It  is  warm  and  sunny  here.  I  have  thin  shoes, 
and  these  paths  are  dry  and  hard.  The  windows 


THE  MOONLIGHT  SONATA.  209 

won't  interrupt.  Do  you  suppose  anyone  takes  inter- 
est enough  in  us  to  spy  upon  us  ? " 

"  Then  put  your  hand  on  my  arm,  dear.  We  seem 
to  be  talking  with  a  wall  between  us.  I  want  to  be 
certain  nothing  is  there." 

But  Betty  would  not  take  his  arm,  and  the  thing  he 
had  to  suggest  to  her  which  he  had  put  into  a  thou- 
sand tender  and  loving  forms  as  he  rode  along  was 
propounded,  after  all,  in  a  manner  which  seemed  to 
rob  the  plan  of  all  its  blissful  charm. 

"  I  want  you  to  be  married  to  me  at  once,  and  come 
home  with  me  to  Queen  Anne's." 

"  With  my  father  scarcely  in  his  grave!  Have  you 
forgotten  ?  " 

"  What  harm  should  we  be  doing  to  your  father's 
memory  ?  Come  into  church  early  one  morning  in, 
say,  three  weeks  time — a  month  if  you  like — and  let 
us  be  married." 

She  had  moved  a  step  farther  from  him  on  the  nar- 
row path,  and  her  face  had  grown  hard.  "  You  talked 
of  six  months  and  I  told  you  it  was  too  soon,  and  now 
it  is  three  weeks  I  "  she  said.  "  Of  course  I  will  not 
do  it." 

"  I  will  not  bother  3*011  to  do  it  against  your  will," 
he  said,  and  she  heard  his  bitter  disappointment  in  his 
voice,  and  would  not  look  him  in  the  face.  "  I  only 
hoped  the  plan  might  seem  to  you  as  happy  as  it  did 
to  me." 

"  I  refuse  to  hear  another  word  about  the  plan," 
Betty  said. 

She  knew  that   she  was  treating  him  brutnlly,  but 

she  feared  to  be  more  kind.     She  dared  not  descend 

from  her  height  of  displeasure,  to  argue  the  question 

because  what  had   she  to  bring   forward  against  the 

14 


210  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

plan  which  he  proposed — a  plan  which  filled  her  with 
shrinking,  with  revolt,  with  positive  terror  ? 

So  she  put  a  summary  end  to  the  discussion  and  the 
tete-a-tete  by  leading  the  way  indoors ;  and  presently 
Carlyon  found  himself  shouting  comments  on  the 
weather  and  the  length  of  his  ride  to  Violet  in  the 
morning  room,  while  Betty  stood  with  her  back 
turned  to  them  looking  out  of  window. 

Bill  was  chilled  and  disheartened,  but  by  no  means 
inclined  to  accept  defeat  so  easily.  He  was  so  in  love 
with  the  plan  himself,  looked  at  from  every  point  of 
view  it  appeared  to  have  no  drawback.  And  he  had 
thought  of  it  till  he  was  steeped  to  the  lips  in  the 
charm  of  it — it  "  filled  the  bill  "  for  him.  How  could 
he  allow  it  to  be  put  on  one  side  so  lightly  ?  Presently 
almost  without  volition  of  his  own,  he  found  himself 
shouting  to  Violet  the  injunction  not  to  keep  Betty 
for  long  :  "  I  want  her  to  come  back  and  be  married 
almost  at  once/'  he  said. 

And  Violet  being  sympathetic,  he  was  presently  un- 
folding his  plan  to  her  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  she 
bending  her  better  ear  to  him,  and  smiling  and  whis- 
pering. "  Eh  ? "  and  the  long  drawn  interrogative 
"  Wm-m-m  ?  "  which  Harringay  found  so  irritating, 
and  Bill  repeating  himself,  and  growing  louder  and 
louder  in  his  arguments. 

The  noise  brought  Harringay  into  the  room,  but 
Betty  had  escaped  then.  Violet,  with  the  light  of 
sympathy  shining  in  her  pretty  eyes,  said  an  explana- 
tory word  or  two  to  her  husband,  who  laughed  in- 
dulgently. 

"  No  time  like  the  present,  Bill,"  he  said.  "  A  bird 
in  the  hand,  you  know,  and  so  on." 

But  those  wise  saws  did  not  appear  appropriate  to 


THE  MOONLIGHT  SONATA.  211 

the  other  man — he  felt  inclined  to  resent  their  appli- 
cation ;  and  the  sound  of  Harringay's  laughter  did 
not  ring  true,  or  please  him. 

"  Nothing  is  settled,"  he  said,  with  a  seriousness  he 
intended  for  a  reproof,  "  Betty  has  only  just  been  told 
of  the  plan  " — 

"  And  she  does  not  fall  in  quite  at  once,"  Harringay 
finished.  "  That  of  course.  Women  generally  hang 
back  in  these  matters." 

"  I  hear  that  you  are  going  away,"  said  Bill,  disin- 
clined to  pursue  the  subject. 

"  To-morrow,  or  the  next  day,  or  the  day  after," 
Harringay  made  answer.  "  My  time  is  my  own,  un- 
fortunately for  me.  I  am  in  no  particular  hurry." 

And  Carlyon  was  conscious  of  receiving  that  assur- 
ance with  anything  but  joy.  He  was  ashamed  of  the 
discomfort  he  felt  in  his  house,  of  the  uneasiness  that 
possessed  him.  The  man  was  one  he  had  always 
loved.  Even  at  the  time  of  that  early  treachery  he 
had  never  succeeded  in  hating  him.  Bill,  who  was 
an  optimist  in  all  things,  had  a  boundless  faith  in 
human  nature.  For  the  very  reason  that  Harringay 
had  played  him  false  once  he  felt  it  to  be  a  double  im- 
possibility that  he  should  mean  evil  to  him  again.  It 
was  himself  and  his  own  unfaithfulness  he  despised 
for  the  pang  of  distrust  that  now  and  again  wrung  his 
heart.  Harringay — poor  fellow,  had  sinned  against 
him  and  been  forgiven  ;  he  wronged  not  only  Harrin- 
gay but  every  generous  instinct  of  his  own  being  by 
dreaming  it  possible  that  Harringay  could  so  sin 
again.  Betty  had  the  faithfullest  heart.  Violet  was 
deeply  attached  to  her  husband — one  saw  it  in  every 
glance.  And  yet — and  yet  he  did  not  feel  safe. 

For  hours  after  he  should  have  been  astride  his 


212  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

sorry  old  mare,  jogging  on  his  homeward  way  he 
stopped  in  the  Harringay's  way — it  being  quite  evi- 
dent to  him  that  he  was  in  their  way.  lie  knew  that 
Violet  and  Betty  had  planned  a  drive  which  his  pres- 
ence hindered  them  from  taking,  he  felt  that  Harrin- 
gay  and  he  were  out  of  sympathy  for  a  time  and  that 
his  society  was  a  weariness  to  the  other  man,  and  yet 
he  stayed  on. 

It  was  Betty,  who,  with  accustomed  audacity,  got 
rid  of  him  at  last : 

"  You  don't  cover  more  than  four  miles  an  hour 
with  that  miserable  old  Kitty,"  she  reminded  him. 
"  If  you  want  to  be  home  before  midnight,  you  had 
better  be  stirring,"  and  at  last  he  had  to  consent  to 
depart. 

"  I  wish  I  could  take  you  with  me,"  he  said  to  her 
while  they  watched,  side  by  side,  in  the  window  for 
the  arrival  of  the  mare. 

"  Oh,  poor  Kitty  1 "  she  sighed.  "  As  if  your  own 
weight  were  not  enough  !  " 

"  I  hate  to  leave  you  here,  Betty." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  Do  you  think  that  they 
will  eat  me  ?  Really,  Bill,  you  are  very  absurd,"  she 
said. 

But  now  that  he  was  going  awa}f  she  smiled  on  him, 
and  allowed  him  to  cover  with  his  the  hand  that  had 
plaj'ed  with  the  window  cord,  and  to  remind  her  how 
natural  it  was  that  he  should  wish  to  keep  her  always 
at  his  side. 

The  fourteen  miles  which  separated  them  were  not 
an  insurmountable  distance  as  Kitty  had  that  day 
triumphantly  proved,  she  told  him,  and  added  that 
through  seeing  less  of  her  he  would  probably  come  to 
value  her  more. 


THE  MOONLIGHT  SONATA.  213 

"  You  will  come  back  almost  at  once,  Betty  ?  " 

"  Almost,"  she  promised  him,  good-naturedly,  "you 
would  not  wish  me  to  run  away  and  leave  Violet 
directly  her  husband  is  gone  ? " 

"  Is  he  going,  really  ?  "  he  could  not  help  saying, 
eagerly.  And  Yiolet  advised  him  to  put  that  question 
to  Harringay  himself. 

"  Betty,  do  as  I  ask  you.  Marry  me  at  once,  and 
let  there  be  an  end  to  all  this." 

The  hand  he  had  captured  made  an  effort  to  escape 
but  he  held  it  fast. 

"  Almost  at  once,  Bill.     Almost." 

Then  his  horse  came  up  and  she  led  the  way  to  the 
door.  They  all  came  forward  to  see  him  mount. 
"  Speed  the  parting  guest,"  said  Bill  to  himself  with 
uncontrollable  bitterness. 

"  I  will  ride  over  again  to-morrow,"  he  promised  as 
he  settled  himself  in  his  saddle. 

Betty  gave  a  laugh  of  dismay,  "  This  poor  beast 
of  yours  must  have  at  least  four  days'  rest,"  she  de- 
clared ;  and  remembered  too  that  Yiolet  and  she  were 
going  to  be  out  for  the  greater  part  of  the  day. 

"  Come,  all  the  same,  Bill,"  the  master  of  the  house 
said  kindly.  "  You  and  I  can  manage  to  pass  an  hour 
or  so  without  the  ladies,  surely." 

"  And  how  have  you  and  Carlyon  settled  your 
differences?"  Harringay  asked  her  later,  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, under  cover  of  those  sweet  influences  with 
which  the  Moonlight  Sonata  opens. 

"  Bill  and  I  have  no  differences,"  said  Betty  with 
severity. 

"  He  wants  to  marry  you  to-morrow  ;  you  want  to 


214  THE  CEDAR  STAR. 

put  it  off  to  the  safe  indefiniteness  of '  some  day.' 
Isn't  that  a  difference  ?  " 

"  It  does  not  exist  any  longer." 

"  He  has  knocked  under.     What  an  ass !  " 

"  Oh,  you  don't  know  Bill  and  me.  It  is  I  who  have 
knocked  under." 

"  You  are  going  to  be  married — directly?  " 

"  It  sounds  impossible — but  I  think  I  promised." 

He  was  silent  till  she  lifted  her  eyes  and  looked  at 
him  with  an  impatient,  questioning  "  Well." 

"  I  am  surprised.     That  is  all." 

"  I  tell  you  don't  know  Bill  and  me.  It  is  always 
I  who  give  way,  sooner  or  later." 

"  Do  you  ever  give  way  against  your  will  ?  " 

"  Often— often  1 " 

"  Against  your  better  judgment,  sometimes?  " 

She  laughed  slightly  :  "  I  don't  pretend  to  judg- 
ment. Impulse  is  all  I  have  to  depend  on.  Bill 
keeps  me  straight.  I  think  Bill  is  generally  right." 

"  From  his  point  of  view,  no  doubt." 

"  And  if  I  am  to  marry  him  his  ideas  will  have  to 
be  mine,  I  suppose." 

"  You've  got  very  primitive  ideas  of  matrimony," 
he  said. 

He  shifted  the  position  of  his  chair,  and  looked 
over  at  his  wife.  The  moon  was  just  beginning  to 
peep  from  the  cloud.  Yiolet  had  not  a  thought  just 
then  but  the  delicious  melody  her  delicate  fingers 
evoked. 

"  Do  you  suppose  that  Yiolet  and  I  regard  matters 
always  from  the  same  standpoint  ?  "  Harringay  asked. 

"  How  beautifully  she  plays  !  "  said  Betty. 

"  The  beauties  of  the  Moonlight  Sonata  are  as 
nothing  to  the  charms  of  irrelevance,"  he  remarked. 


THE  MOONLIGHT  SONATA  215 

"  Violet  adores  her  husband,"  said  Betty,  blushing 
over  the  words. 

"  Oh,  yes.  And  I  adore  Violet.  And  Bill  adores 
you.  And  you  adore  Bill.  What  a  delightful  quar- 
tette, and  what  a  delectable  arrangement.  And  how 
happy  we  all  ought  to  be  in  this  best  of  all  possible 
worlds !  " 

"  I  suppose  people  are,  sometimes,"  Betty  said,  and 
sighed  enviously,  and  with  the  hopelessness  of  twenty 
years  or  so.  She  leaned  her  head  back  on  the  top  of 
her  chair  and  looked  drearnity  upward.  "  Don't  you 
think  so  ? " 

"  Think  what  ?  "  he  asked  softly,  as  he  watched 
her. 

"  That  people  are  sometimes  happy  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  never  have  been.  I'd  give  a  good 
deal — I'd  give  ten  years  of  my  life,  say,  for  ten  months 
— yes,  for  ten  days,  even.  Would  you  ?  What  would 
you  give  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head  slowly.  "  I  couldn't  offer  high 
enough  terms,"  she  said. 

"  Let  me  bargain  for  you,"  he  suggested  with  a 
suspicion  of  eagerness.  "  Would  you  give — let  me 
see — the  conventionalities,  superstitions,  formalities, 
which  at  present  hedge  you  in — for  instance?" 

She  laughed.  "  With  all  my  heart — if  they  exist," 
she  assured  him. 

"  Would  j'ou  give  your  acquaintances — the  people 
about  you  who  have  tried  to  mould  you  in  their  own 
pattern,  who  expect  you  to  walk  beside  them  in  the 
grooves  they  have  prepared  for  you  on  pain  of  being 
cast  into  outer  darkness  beyond  their  sanction  and 
favor.  You  would  give  them  ?  " 

"  Gladly.     Take  them  all." 


216  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

"  Your  friends  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head :  "  Not  the  people  who  love  me. 
Certainly  not." 

"  Wait  a  minute.  You  are  like  all  women,  nig- 
gardly. Who  are  the  people  who  love  3rou?  " 

"  Peter  and  Emily  and — and — " 

"  Oh,  Carlyon,  of  course,"  he  said  impatientty. 
"  Anyone  else  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  another  or  two." 

"  You  shall  not  give  them — you  shall  keep  them 
all.  They  will  have  to  readjust  their  ideas  of  you, 
perhaps,  not  love  you  less,  but — " 

"  Be  grieved  with  me,  disappointed  in  me  ? " 

"Well?" 

"  I  should  have  to  fail  them  in  some  wajr — be  false 
to  their  trust  in  me  ?  No !  I  won't  have  your  happi- 
ness," Betty  cried,  and  all  at  once  sat  upright  in  her 
chair  and  opened  deep  eyes  upon  him. 

"  You  women,  with  all  your  extravagance,  never 
know  how  to  be  generous,"  he  said.  "  Heaven  is 
offered  you,  and  you  stop  to  haggle  over  the  price." 

u  Your  heaven  is  too  dear." 

"  You  certainly  don't  deserve  it  if  you  are  incapable 
of  renunciation,"  he  said. 

And  so  on.  There  is  little  profit  in  retailing  such 
conversations — the  foolish,  half-veiled  talk  of  a  for- 
bidden subject,  the  fencing  with  words,  the  uncon- 
sciousness that  is  mostly  pretence.  The  prelude  to 
the  familiar  tragedy  is  generally  in  that  key — aplajT- 
ing  with  fire,  ajuggling  with  edged  tools,  aplucking 
of  those  flowers  which  grow  on  the  very  edge  of  the 
precipice. 

And  of  such  conversations  there  were  man}'.  For 
the  days  went  on  and  Harringay  did  not  go  to  Paris. 


THE  MOONLIGHT  SONATA  217 

Each  day  the  departure  hung,  threatening,  over  the 
heads  of  the  household,  each  evening  found  the  master 
of  the  house  lounging  still  in  his  wife's  drawing-room. 
The  song  or  two  which  Violet  exacted  from  him  as  his 
contribution  to  the  general  entertainment  being  over, 
he  would  give  himself  up  to  the  more  or  less  persistent 
study  of  Betty's  face,  pale  and  passionate  and  sad, 
while  the  dreamy  melodies  dropping  from  Violet's 
fingers,  floated  softly,  sadly,  seductively,  through  the 
room. 


218  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

"  I   PITY   TAKE   ON   ALL  POOR   WOMEN." 

ALTHOUGH  daily  the  certainty  grew  upon  him  that 
his  visits  were  not  acceptable  to  the  girl,  Carlyon  was 
not  to  be  frightened  from  his  post.  Day  by  clay  he 
crawled  over  on  the  back  of  his  mare  Kitty  or  jolted 
over  in  the  miller's  cart  or  walked  when  these  modes 
of  locomotion  failed  him.  He  came,  and  he  would  not 
be  deterred ;  nor  was  it  easy,  once  assured,  to  send 
him  away.  And  ever  he  put  forth  that  plea  of  his  for 
an  early  marriage,  and  each  day  with  more  and  more 
of  earnestness  he  entreated  Bettj*  to  return  with  him 
to  Blow  Weston. 

And  Betty,  who,  now  cold  to  him,  now  petulant 
and  unreasonable,  was  now  and  then  in  the  mood  in 
which  he  found  her  most  hard  to  leave,  most  impos- 
sible to  manage — humble  and  gentle  and  full  of  re- 
morse, and  the  old,  clinging,  childlike  affection.  And, 
whatever  the  change  in  her  manner,  he  knew  that  she 
was  never  hard  of  heart  at  all,  never  really  forgetful 
of  the  claims  upon  her  of  those  who  loved  her. 

But  if  in  those  days  she  was  a  trouble  and  an 
anxiety  to  her  affianced  husband  she  gave  herself  no 
easy  time.  There  were  hours  in  each  day  when  she 
told  herself  that  this  thing  which  Bill  demanded  of 
her  must  be  done,  that  the  repugnances  she  could  feel 
must  weigh  with  her  against  the  knowledge  that  he 
wished  it.  And  there  were  hours  again  when  it 
seemed  impossible  and  she  knew  that  the  sacrifice 
demanded  was  one  which  could  never  be  performed. 


"J  PITY  TAKE  ON  ALL  POOR    WOMEN."       219 

And  the  conflict  and  all  the  sorrow  she  had  under- 
gone began  to  tell  upon  her  who  knew  nothing  of 
physical  suffering  and  had  had  hardly  a  day's  illness 
in  her  life.  She  lost  appetite  and  could  not  sleep  at 
night,  but  tossed  the  hours  away  in  feverish  per- 
plexity and  self-reproach  ;  or  worse  still,  passed  them 
in  a  blissful  waking  dream  of  words  and  looks  and 
tones,  repeating  to  herself  conversations  that  had 
taken  place  during  the  day,  improving,  re-construct- 
ing, imagining  new  ones. 

So  that  her  face  grew  paler  and  her  eyes  more  large 
and  sad.  So  that  Bill,  looking  upon  her  had  a  new 
anxiety  added  to  that  which  made  his  heart  so  heavy. 
So  that  Violet  grew  kinder  and  more  solicitous  for 
her  comfort,  saying  that  the  long  spell  of  nursing  and 
the  sadness  of  all  about  her  had  told  on  Betty  and 
insisting  that  she  must  not  dream  of  getting  married 
until  she  had  become  well  and  strong.  So  that 
Harringay  was  possessed  with  the  beauty  of  the 
heavy-lidded  eyes,  the  new  languor  of  every  movement, 
the  provoking  charm  of  the  face  that  paled  and  flushed 
at  a  word. 

At  last,  after  a  fortnight  of  such  shilly-shallying — 
a  fortnight,  on  the  face  of  things,  passing  smoothly 
and  uneventfully  enough  but  in  which  two  or  three 
of  the  people  concerned  felt  that  they  had  lived 
through  ages  of  rapture  and  pain — there  came  a  day 
when  Carlyon,  calling  at  the  Harringay's  house,  found 
Betty  denied  to  him. 

Violet  came  to  him,  full  of  apologies.  Betty  had 
passed  a  wakeful  night,  she  was  at  once  feverish  and 
languid,  she  had  asked  to  be  permitted  to  keep  her 
room. 

Bill  was  miserable  with  anxiety.     He  demanded  of 


220  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

Mrs.  Harringay  that  he  should  at  once  be  taken  to 
see  the  girl. 

Violet,  distracted  between  her  desire  to  be  kind  to 
Bill,  and  her  fear  of  offending  Betty,  dared  not  accede 
to  the  request  without  consulting  the  latter. 

Betty,  appealed  to,  had  sent  a  decided  refusal. 

She  had  sprung  from  the  sofa  and  had  locked  the 
door  on  Violet's  back,  as  that  lady  left  the  room  ;  and 
until  she  heard  the  sound  of  Carlyon's  wheels,  as,  dis- 
consolate and  sore  at  heart,  he  drove  away,  she  would 
not  be  induced  to  open  it.  But  when  she  knew 
that  the  man  was  really  gone,  she  hid  her  face  in  the 
cushion  and  cried  as  though  her  heart  would  break, 
and  called  upon  Bill's  name  with  choking  sobs,  and 
cried  to  herself  that  she  had  broken  his  heart — she 
had  broken  his  heart ! 

For  the  letter  which  Carlyon  received  next  morn- 
ing, whose  contents  he  seemed  to  have  expected  all 
along,  while  at  the  same  time  they  turned  him  sick 
and  giddy  with  surprise,  had  then  been  written  and 
dispatched. 

"  Dear  Bill,"  this  precious  epistle  ran, 

"  Will  you  let  all  be  over  between  us  ?  You  must, 
because  I  am  not  happy  at  all  in  the  thought  of 
marrying  you.  I  am  not  good  enough  for  you.  I 
could  never  make  you  happy.  Write  me  a  line  to 
say  you  will  do  this  for  me.  You  have  alwajrs  done 
everything  I  wanted — this  is  only  one  little  thing 
more.  Do  say  you  think  I  am  right  in  this,  and  that 
you  don't  care  much.  This  will  make  me  happier.  I 
think  of  nothing  but  your  goodness  and  I  hate  my- 
self. So  forgive  me — 

"  Yours,  Betty." 


"/  PITY  TAKE  ON  ALL  POOR    WOMEN.11       221 

When  Betty  had  cried  herself  into  a  semblance  of 
calm,  Violet  came  in  and  tea  was  served  to  them  by 
the  invalid's  sofa.  And  Betty  who  had  eaten  nothing 
all  day,  was  glad  of  the  tea,  and  presently  was  con- 
scious of  a  great  feeling  of  relief,  almost  of  rejoicing. 
The  deed  was  done  painful  as  it  was,  past  recall,  and 
oh,  the  joy  of  having,  an}rhow,  shifted  that  burden — 
of  being  free  !  The  color  came  to  her  lips  again,  her 
eyes  shone,  she  laughed  and  joked  over  the  enormous 
appetite  which  she  suddenly  exhibited. 

Violet  smiled  with  her  wistful,  half  envious  appre- 
ciation of  the  youth  and  light-heartedness  she  knew 
to  be  so  attractive,  and  which  she  felt  that  she,  her- 
self, had  lost  for  ever. 

"  That  is  more  like  the  old  Betty,"  she  whispered, 
caressing  the  girl's  hand  as  it  lay  on  the  little  table  be- 
side her.  "  You  have  been  looking  so  sad  and  wor- 
ried lately,  dear,  it  is  delightful  to  see  you  so  happy 
once  more." 

Happy  ?  Betty  put  down  the  cup  and  the  half- 
eaten  tea-cake,  and  the  light  died  out  of  her  face  where 
every  shade  of  feeling  showed.  "  Happy  ? "  she  re- 
peated to  herself — "  happy  ?  " 

Violet  could  not  hear  the  questioning  word.  She 
gave  Betty's  hand  a  final  squeeze  and  went  on  drink- 
ing her  own  tea.  She  started  at  the  girl's  eager  voice 
in  her  ear. 

"  M-m-m  ?  "  she  inquired,  with  that  peculiar  expres- 
sion which  her  face  acquired  in  the  effort  to  keep  her 
ear  and  her  eye  turned  at  the  same  time  upon  her  com- 
panion. "  The  toast  bad,  did  you  say,  dear  ? " 

"  The  post-bag  !  It  has  left,  hasn't  it  ?  If  I  ran 
very  quickly  do  you  suppose  I  could  overtake  it  be- 
fore the  letters  are  posted." 


222  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

"  Eh  k-h  ?  "  said  Violet  softly  drawling  as  was  her 
custom  over  the  leisurely  word. 

But  Betty  would  wot  wait  to  repeat  herself.  She 
flew  up  from  the  sofa,  caught  up  a  hat  from  the 
drawers,  and  ran  downstairs,  through  the  hall,  cast- 
ing a  glance  to  the  table  there  to  make  sure  the  post- 
bag  had  gone,  out  into  the  garden  and  so,  breathless 
in  her  hurry,  along  the  road. 

She  had  not  ran  far  in  the  direction  of  the  post 
office  when  she  met  the  servant  whose  duty  it  was  to 
take  the  bag  returning.  The  letters  were  gone. 

The  expression  with  which  she  learned  that  her 
repentance  came  too  late  was  on  her  face  still  when 
she  saw  Harringay,  coming  along  the  road,  beneath 
the  tender  tints  of  the  early  evening  sky,  to  meet 
her. 

She  walked  at  his  side  in  silence  for  a  minute  ;  "  I 
was  too  late,"  she  said  at  length. 

He  did  not  ask  for  what.  There  was  something 
weighty  in  her  tone  he  noticed,  and  her  eyes  were 
tragic,  but  he  was  not  one  to  force  a  confidence. 

"  I  should  like  to  paint  you,  with  that  look  on  your 
face,  as  one  of  the  foolish  virgins,"  he  said.  "  They 
also  were  too  late  for  something,  were  they  not  ? " 

"  You  often  say  you  would  like  to  paint  me  with 
this  or  that  look,  but  you  never  do  it,"  she  said,  list- 
lessly, walking  wearily  along  the  road  by  his  side. 

"  Because  I  dare  not.  I  think  I  know  your  face  by 
heart."  He  half  closed  his  eyes  as  if  he  were  looking 
within,  considering  features  engraven  there.  "  Yes — 
every  line  of  it,  every  trick  of  it.  That  is  why  no 
portrait  would  satisfy  me.  I  should  put  every  scrap 
of  knowledge,  and  what  talent  I  possess  into  my  effort 
to  reproduce  it — and  I  should  shoot  myself  with  dis- 


"I  PITT  TAKE  ON  ALL  POOR   WOMEN."       223 

gust  at  my  failure.  You  don't  want  me  to  paint  you, 
do  you  ?"  he  asked  her  presently. 

"  Oh,  no." 

"  For  what  have  you  been  too  late  ?    Am  I  to  know  ?  " 

"  A  letter  I  wrote.  I  wanted  it  to  get  it  back.  I 
was  too  late." 

"  I  must  paint  you  as  the  young  woman  with  the  ex- 
tinguished lamp,  after  all.  I  must  try  to  get  the  tone 
of  your  voice  in  that '  too  late '  into  the  picture  too." 

"  Before  you  blow  out  your  brains,  you  might  spare 
a  bullet  for  mine  while  you  were  about  it.  How  I 
wish  you  would." 

"  What  would  Carlyon  say  ?  " 

"  That  is  all  done  with.  All  over.  I  have  written 
to  tell  him  so." 

"Was  that  the  letter  you  were  anxious  to  recall?" 
he  asked  her  after  a  moment's  pause ;  and  she  told 
him  that  it  was. 

"  Then  it  is  as  if  it  had  never  been  written.  You 
will  express  your  repentance ;  Carlyon  will  ask  no 
questions.  You  will  live  happily  ever  after.  The 
usual  wind-up  of  all  such  pretty  stories." 

"  I  wish  I  could  get  away,"  said  Betty  irritably, 
looking  away  from  him,  paying  no  attention,  appar- 
ently, to  him  and  his  words. 

"  Away  from  whom  ?  From  me  ?  From  us  ?  From 
Carlyon  ? " 

"  If  I  could  only  never  see  him  again  !  I  hate  to 
hurt  people — not  because  of  their  pain,  but  because  I 
cannot  bear  to  see  their  pain.  If  I  only  need  not  see 
it !  If  I  could  get  away !  " 

"  That  can  be  easily  managed,"  he  quietly  assured 
her.  "  You  shall  go  away  to-morrow.  We  will  all 
go." 


224  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

She  shook  her  head.  "  Of  course  I  must  not,"  and 
he  wasted  no  breath  in  persuading  her. 

"  The  evenings  are  delicious  still,"  presently,  he 
said.  "  Oh,  such  an  evening  as  this,  do  you  ever  have 
a  longing  upon  you  to  hear  the  water  lapping  against 
a  boat's  side  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  have  had  so  little  to  do  with 
seas  and  rivers.  That  may  be  one  among  the  many 
undefined  things  I  long  for." 

"  It  is  the  peacefulest,  most  soothing  of  all  sounds. 
You  sit  in  the  boat,  motionless,  and  the  evening  and 
the  silence  gather  round,  and  the  murmur  of  the  river 
is  only  the  deepest  part  of  the  silence.  Then,  your 
hopes  and  your  fears,  your  past  life  and  3^0111'  future  die 
out  of  you.  You  are  emptied  of  your  veiy  thoughts. 
You  sit  there  a  part  of  the  quiet  and  the  stillness  and 
the  night.  It  is  like  death.  You  are  dead  until  you 
make  an  effort  to  come  back  to  life  again." 

"•  I  should  like  to  feel  that,"  Betty  said.  "  I  hope 
I  should  forget  to  make  the  effort  to  come  back." 

"  I  shall  not  let  you  forget.  I  shall  row  you  back 
to  the  wherry  and  you  will  come  to  life  to  see  the 
gnats  dancing  low  upon  the  water,  to  see  the  lights 
in  the  cabin  window.  Or  perhaps  the  nights  are  too 
chill  now  for  sleeping  out,  and  we  will  all  put  up  at  a 
little  inn  I  know  by  the  riverside,  and  you  will  hear 
the  bargees  singing  over  their  beer  in  the  inn  kitchen. 
Yes.  We  will  go  to  the  river.  There  is  nothing  like 
the  river  to  help  us  over  difficult  places.  I  long  for  it 
too.  I  am  a  little  bit  mad  at  times,  although  I  keep 
my  madness  to  myself  as  a  rule,  I  hope.  The  river 
may  make  me  sane." 

When  Betty  came  down  an  hour  late  to  breakfast 
the  next  morning  her  hostess  told  her  "  Ted,"  whose 


"/  PITY  TAKE  ON  ALL  POOR    WOMEN."       225 

movements  were  always  disturbingly  sudden  and  un- 
locked for,  had  decided  in  the  night  that  a  blow  on 
the  river  would  do  them  all  good.  He  had  gone  to 
hire  a  yacht  or  a  wherry,  or  failing  that,  rooms  at  a 
riverside  inn,  and  the  ladies  were  to  follow  him  by  a 
certain  train  later  on. 

This  news  was  also  imparted  to  William  Carlyon, 
when  he  appeared  at  noontime. 

Betty  sent  word  to  him  that  she  was  packing  and 
could  not  appear. 

He  persisted. 

The  servant  who  carried  up  his  reiterated  request 
that  she  should  corne  down  to  him,  descended  with  a 
bit  of  folded  paper  on  which  was  written  "  I  beg  you 
not  to  insist  on  seeing  me.  It  can  do  no  good.  I 
cannot  see  you." 

To  which  he  scrawled  the  reply,  "  You  must  see 
me.  It  is  a  matter  of  life  and  death.  I  shall  search 
the  house  for  you  if  you  don't  come  down." 

At  that  she  appeared.  With  the  view  of  carrying 
out  his  threat  to  seek  her,  he  had  got  as  far  as  the 
hall,  when  he  saw  her  coming  downstairs.  He  took 
her  hand  without  a  word,  and  drew  her  into  a  room 
away  from  that  in  which  Violet  was  sitting  awaiting 
the  arrival  of  the  carriage  which  was  to  take  her  to 
the  station.  He  held  her  hand  for  quite  a  long  time 
in  silence,  finding  speech  at  the  moment  impossible. 
At  length,  "  This  is  a  great  misfortune  for  us  both, 
dear,"  he  said. 

Betty's  lips  shook  and  she  looked  away  from  him : 
"  It  can't  be  helped,"  she  said  in  the  low  tone  of  hope- 
lessness.    "  I  want  you  to  believe,  Bill,  it  can't  be 
helped." 
15 


226  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

"  I  will  try  to  believe  that,"  lie  said  gently,  and 
gripped  the  hand  tighter,  "  I  will  try." 

"  I — so  hate  to  hurt  you  and  give  you  pain  I  " 

"  I  am  sure  of  that.  You  must  not  be  unhappy 
about  me,  dear.  I  suppose  I  can  bear  what  is  sent 
me  to  bear.  It  is  not  about  myself  I  have  come  to 
talk,  Betty.  I  have  come  to  take  you  away  from  this 
house  at  once." 

Her  lip  grew  steady  and  she  turned  upon  him  with 
a  lifted  head  :  "  Why  ?  " 

"  Never  mind  why.     Come." 

"  To  Caroline  ?  " 

"  Back  to  your  father's  house — where  your  place  is 
— where  you  will  be  safe." 

"  I  am  perfectly  safe  as  I  am.  I  will  not  go  back 
to  Caroline." 

"  At  any  rate  come  away.  You  are  not  penniless 
or  dependent  on  anyone,  remember.  Your  mother's 
little  fortune  is  yours  now,  and  Peter's,  and  Emily's. 
There  is  not  much,  yet  enough  to  make  you  your  own 
mistress." 

"  I  am  glad,"  she  said  slowly.  "  Why  did  no  one 
explain  that  to  me  before  ?  I  will  go  back,  then,  and 
work  at  my  art." 

"  I  will  take  you  up  to  London  this  very  day  if  you 
like.  To-morrow  at  latest.  Only  come." 

She  waited  for  a  moment  then  :  "  Why  ?  "  she  asked 
again,  but  with  averted  eyes  and  in  a  coward  tone. 

He  looked  at  her  steadily  for  a  moment :  "  You 
know  why,"  he  said,  but  in  a  whisper.  Because  of 
the  pain  at  his  heart  he  could  not  trust  his  voice. 

"  Yet,  tell  me,"  she  whispered  fearfully  back. 

"  Because  of  this  man — Harringay.     I  have  known 


"/  PITY  TAKE  ON  ALL  POOR    WOMEN."       227 

you  all  my  life  and  you  have  never  lied  to  me,  Betty. 
Don't  tell  me  you  don't  understand." 

She  stood  silent  with  averted  face. 

"  I  had  had  my  lesson.  He  cheated  me,  and  I 
trusted  him  again  with  what  was  infinitely  more  pre- 
cious. He  has  cheated  me  again." 

"  He  has  not,"  Betty  said.  A  little  of  her  old  fire 
came  back  in  defence  of  the  man  who  was  absent. 
"  He  has  never  said  one  word  of — of — " 

He  threw  up  a  hand  authoritatively.  "  Have  a  little 
mercy.  Spare  me  that  at  least,"  he  said. 

Then  she  bent  her  head  upon  her  hand  and  began 
quietly  and  hopelessly  to  cry.  "  What  shall  I  do  ?  " 
she  said.  "  Oh  Bill,  what  shall  I  do  ?  " 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Bill  curtly,  wondering,  in  the  in- 
finite sickness  of  his  soul,  how  much  he  could  be 
called  on  to  bear. 

"  He  has  been  good — and  I  have,  sometimes,  tried 
to  be — but  I  love  him,"  Betty  said  through  her  tears. 
"  I  think  I  have  loved  him  since  I  was  a  little  child." 
Then  she  lifted  her  head  and  looked  at  Carlyon  and 
ceased  to  cry.  "  What  am  I  to  do  ?  "  she  asked  him 
again. 

"  Do  ?  "  he  said,  "  Can  you  ask  ?  Leave  this  house 
instantly.  Never  see  the  man  again.  Have  you  for- 
gotten that  he  is  another  woman's  husband  ?  " 

"  I  can't,"  she  said,  "  I  have  to  think  of  him  a  little. 
I  won't  leave  him  like  that.  If  I  were  cold-blooded — 
if  I  felt  nothing  !— I  can't." 

Then  he  put  his  hands  on  her  shoulders,  and  made 
her  look  him  in  the  face. 

"  Betty,"  he  said,  very  slowly  and  dropping  his  voice, 
"  have  you  thought  what  it  is  to  tempt  a  soul  to  sin  ? '' 

She  looked  at  him  without  reply,  and  might  have 


228  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

thought  as  she  looked,  that  simplicity  and  goodness 
have  a  dignity  of  their  own,  and  that  in  suffering, 
silently  and  unselfishly  endured,  there  is  a  kind  of 
eloquence. 

"  This  man,"  he  went  on,  "  he  took  his  wife  by  foul 
means,  but  she  is  his  wife.  You  are  trying  to 
conme  between." 

"  I  have  not  tried,"  she  said  faintly. 

"  But  it  is  done  all  the  same.  I  have  known  it  in 
my  heart  all  along — but  I  would  not  know.  It  was 
there  from  the  first — inevitable." 

"  As  inevitable  as  death,"  said  Betty. 

"  And  your  going  on  means  worse  than  death.  It 
means — ruin !  "  said  Cartyon,  with  his  grey  face  of 
pain — "  it  is  best  to  be  plain — ruin  of  three  persons, 
of  yourself,  of  Harringaj',  of  his  wife.  You  shall  not 
go  on.  Get  your  hat,  and  come  with  me.  If  you  re- 
fuse, I  will  do  this.  I  will  go  to  Violet,  and  will  tell 
her  what  your  staying  under  this  roof  means  to  her. 
You  can  never  be  anything  more  to  me  now,  Betty  ; 
but  you  are,  and  will  be  forever,  the  child  that  I 
loved.  I  will  not  stand  idle  and  see  the  child  that  I 
loved  go  to  destruction.  Get  your  hat  and  come." 

"I  will,"  she  said.  "I  swear  it,  Bill.  But  pres- 
ently— in  a  day  or  two.  You  forget — no  one  knows 
but  you  and  I — I  myself.  Would  you  have  me  reveal 
the  whole  story — to  him,  too — by  flight  ?  I  have 
done  nothing  wrong — nor  has  he,  that  he  should  not 
be  trusted.  I  will  go  with  Violet  and  will  stay  a 
couple  of  nights  ;  and  then  I  will  go  away.  I  will  go 
back  to  the  Walker  School  and  the  old  life — and 
work.  And  Violet  will  be  safe  and  so  will  he.  I  prom- 
ise, Bill.  You  can  trust  me  ?  " 

"  I  can  trust  you,"  he  said — "  but  not  him.    Not 


"/  PITY  TAKE  ON  ALL  POOR    WOMEN.1'       229 

him  for  an  instant  with  what  is  the  light  of  another 
man's  life — more  precious — "  his  voice  failed  him,  and 
for  an  instant  he  shut  his  teeth  hard  and  turned  away. 
Then  he  faced  her  again,  the  more  resolute  for  the 
moment's  weakness.  "  I  will  not  trust  Harringay  for 
a  second,"  he  said.  "  Nor  will  I  leave  this  house 
without  you.  Get  your  hat." 

"  I  must  see  him  to  say  good-bye.  Afterward,  I 
will  do  what  you  like." 

"  You  must  do  it  now." 

"  You  do  not  trust  me." 

"  I  do  not  trust  you  with  him." 

She  walked  to  the  door  and  turned  round  upon 
him  there  with  a  face  of  hard  defiance. 

"  All  my  life  I  have  never  lied  to  you,"  she  said. 
"  Even  this  thing  about  which  other  women  would 
have  lied  I  told  you  when  you  asked  me  because  I 
thought  you  trusted  me.  Yery  well.  Now  you  trust 
me  no  longer." 

"  You  are  not  yourself;  you  are  under  an  evil  in- 
fluence." 

"  I  would  have  kept  my  promise.  Now,  you  force 
me  to  play  a  part  that  is  not  only  ungrateful  but 
ridiculous — " 

"  I  will  see  to  that.     I  will  take  all  the  blame." 

"  Yes  ;  you  will  take  the  blame,  and  you  will  re- 
member why.  Because  you  did  not  trust  me." 

He  pulled  out  his  watch,  not  looking  at  it,  holding 
it  in  his  hand,  "  How  long  will  it  take  you  to  dress," 
he  asked  her  with  an  irrepressible  impatience.  He 
felt  that  each  minute  he  and  she  lingered  in  that 
house  was  an  added  torture. 

"  My  clothes  are  alread}^  packed,  and  it  will  take 
me  about  five  minutes  to  dress,"  she  said. 


230  TEE  CEDAR  STAB. 

Then  she  went. 

He  was  feverishly  impatient  for  her  return.  This 
was  the  feeling  that  occupied  the  foreground  of  his 
mind,  driving  all  other  pain  out  of  sight  for  a  while. 
Plenty  of  time  for  him  to  nurse  his  pain !  All  his 
long  and  empty  life  to  do  that  in.  At  present  there 
was  Betty  to  put  into  safety.  He  walked  up  and 
down  the  room,  played  with  the  ornaments  on  mantel- 
piece and  table,  in  the  miserable  fidgettiness  of  the 
soul's  unrest.  It  seemed  an  age  to  him  that  he 
waited,  but  he  held  his  watch  in  his  hand  and  knew 
that  the  minutes  which  crept  so  slowly  were  very  few. 

When  ten  of  them  were  past,  he  bethought  him 
that  he  would  see  Violet  and  make  what  excuse  he 
could  for  Betty's  sudden  departure.  He  looked  for 
her  in  the  room  in  which  he  had  left  her,  and  not  find- 
ing her  there,  rang  the  bell  to  inquire  for  her. 

His  mistress  was  just  leaving  for  the  station  the 
servant  said,  and  even  as  the  man  spoke,  Carlyon 
heard  the  wheels  of  the  carriage  which  bore  her  away. 

One  obstacle  removed,  he  said  to  himself.  Carlyon 
waited  another  five  minutes,  and  then  walked  into 
the  hall  to  watch  the  stairs  down  which  Betty  must 
come.  The  servant  who  had  answered  his  bell  was 
loitering  against  the  hall  door,  waiting  to  open  it 
when  it  should  please  the  visitor  to  go. 

u  Are  you  looking  for  anyone,  sir  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  For  Miss  Jervois.     She  knows  that  I  am  waiting." 

"  Miss  Jervois  left  with  my  mistress  some  minutes 
ago,  sir,"  the  man  said.  "  They  are  going  on  to  the 
Broads  for  a  few  days,  I  believe,  sir." 

Carlyon  turned  away  without  a  word.  This  was 
what  had  come  of  telling  Betty  Jervois  he  did  not 
trust  her ! 


/  HAD  MY  WAT.  231 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

I  HAD  MY  WAY. 

IT  was  on  the  third  day  from  that  which  had  wit' 
nessed  his  fruitless  errand  to  Edmundsbury  that  the 
Reverend  William  Carlyon,  walking,  heavy-hearted 
through  the  sunshine  on  his  parish  rounds,  was  over- 
taken by  a  galloping  pony  dragging  a  noisy  rattling 
cart  which  was  pulled  up  alongside  him.  Pony-cart 
and  driver  were  all  well  known  to  Carlyon.  The  lat- 
ter was  the  proprietor  of  the  little  grocer  shop  at 
Crabberton,  who,  being  his  parishioner  was  privileged 
to  make  a  good  thing  commercially  out  of  his  rever- 
ence. Bill  himself  was  content  to  be  the  victim  as 
well  as  the  customer  of  all  the  local  tradespeople. 

In  connection  with  the  grocery  stores  there  was  a 
post  and  a  telegraph  office,  and  Bill  knew  at  once 
that  the  dingy  pink  envelope  Mr.  Goggs  held  up  to 
catch  his  attention  was  a  telegram. 

He  thought  also  that  he  knew  what  it  contained. 

"  You  wasn't  up  to  the  house  when  I  went,  and  I 
thought  I'd  come  after  you,  quick  as  convanient — for 
I  muchly  fear  'tis  ill  news  I  ha'  brought  }rou,"  said 
Mr.  Goggs,  clambering  down  stiffly  from  the  cart. 

Carlyon  stood  like  a  rock.  "  Betty  is  dead,"  he 
said  to  himself. 

The  eager  eyes  of  Mr.  Goggs  were  fixed  upon  the 
parson's  face.  He  would  not  lose  a  tremble  of  the 
finger,  or  the  quiver  of  an  eyelid.  It  would  be  ex- 
pected of  him  to  spare  no  detail  in  his  recital  of  the 
story  to  his  cronies. 


232  THE  CEDAR  STAR. 

Bill  broke  the  envelope.  "  She  is  dead,"  he  said. 
It  was  her  drowned  face  he  saw  distinctly  on  the  pink 
page  before  he  read  the  words  it  contained.  The 
worst  that  life  held  for  him  had  happened.  While  he 
lived  he  would  never  know  fear  again. 

"  There  has  been  an  accident.     Come  at  once." 

He  looked  at  the  words  for  long,  seeing  them 
through  that  drowned  white  face  as  it  were,  before  it 
became  clear  to  his  dazed  brain  that  the  message  was 
sent  in  Betty  Jervois's  name,  that,  whoever  was 
drowned,  she,  at  least,  was  alive  to  tell  the  tale. 

And  the  bearer  of  the  telegram  had  seen  nothing. 
"  'Tis  a  bad  job,  I  fear  me,  but  the  parson  he  kep'  a 
still  tongue,"  he  said,  waiting  at  the  public  house  to 
lay  out  the  tip  which  Bill  had  remembered  to  give 
him.  "  He's  not  one  o'  your  high-minded  ones  as 
never  let  on  to  a  chap,  familiar-like — him  and  me's 
had  many  a  mardle — but  he  never  give  out  to-day. 
Maybe  his  heart's  too  full,"  said  Mr.  Goggs. 

Carlyon  was  nearer  to  the  rectory  than  to  Queen 
Anne's  when  the  messenger  had  overtaken  him.  He 
went  in  there  at  once,  the  pink  paper  fluttering  in  his 
hand  which  trembled  wofully  now — now  that  there 
was  still  something  to  live  for,  torment  ahead,  perhaps 
— now  that  Betty  was  alive. 

"  You  must  come  with  me,"  he  said  to  Caroline. 
"  We  can't  tell  what  it  is,  but  it  is  disaster.  She  may 
not  be  able  to  leave  at  once,  and  a  woman  must  be 
with  her.  You  must  come." 

And  Caroline,  always  prompt  at  the  call  of  duty, 
went  without  demur. 

There  was  a  drive  of  four  miles  or  so  between  the 
little  country  station  at  which,  a  couple  of  hours  later, 


I  HAD  MY  WAY.  233 

they  alighted,  and  the  riverside  inn  from  which  Betty 
had  sent  her  telegram.  During  that  drive  they  learnt 
the  extent  of  the  misfortune  which  had  befallen — not 
a  detail  of  the  budget  collected  and  gloated  over  by 
the  driver  was  spared  them. 

The  whole  party,  Betty,  Yiolet  and  Harringaj'jhad 
been  immersed.  Harringay  and  Betty  had  been 
rescued  in  an  exhausted  condition.  Yiolet  had  been 
drowned. 

This  had  happened  on  the  previous  evening.  The 
husband  had  sta}red  at  a  cottage  near  the  scene  of  the 
disaster  where  the  poor  wife's  body  lay.  The  young 
lady  had  been  moved,  when  sufficient!}'  recovered,  to 
the  Ferry  Inn,  there  being  no  accommodation  for  her 
at  the  cottage.  On  the  morrow  the  "  Inkwitch  "  was 
to  be  held  at  the  cottage. 

This,  without  its  merciful  brevity,  was  what  Car- 
lyon  and  his  sister  heard  as  they  were  carried  along 
the  country  road,  in  sight,  all  the  way,  of  the  cruel 
river,  to  be  deposited  at  the  door  of  the  Ferry  Inn. 
The}r  found  Betty  Jervois  sitting  in  the  inn  parlor. 
It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  they  arrived,  and 
she  had  pulled  the  curtain  of  red  cotton  over  the 
small  paned,  wide  seated  window,  to  hide  the  river 
upon  which,  across  a  sloping,  uncared  for  little  plot 
of  grass,  the  window  looked.  The  light  in  the  low 
ceilinged  room  was  dim,  therefore,  and  she  sat  in  its 
duskiest  corner.  She  did  not  rise  when  they  entered. 
They  walked  toward  her,  across  the  brick  floor,  with 
its  little  mats  of  carpets  placed  unmeaningly  upon 
the  uneven  surface,  and  she  accepted  passively  the 
kiss  which  Caroline  laid  upon  her  cold  and  ashen 
cheek.  Then  she  held  out  her  hand  to  Bill,  and 
looked  up  in  his  face. 


234  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

"  I  had  my  way,  you  see,"  she  said  to  him. 

"  Fresh  from  such  a  grievous  tragedy,  her  self-pos- 
session is  wonderful,"  Caroline  said  afterward  to  her 
brother. 

But  Carlyon  knew  that  the  last  vestige  of  the  Betty 
of  old — the  child  who  had  played  and  wept  and  laughed, 
who  had  been  naughty  and  adorable  in  her  self-willed 
way,  the  last  remnant  even  of  her  short,  wilful,  in- 
tractable, but  still  adorable  girlhood  had  died  out  from 
Betty  Jervois  for  ever. 

There  was  no  privacy  to  be  had.  The  inn  parlor 
was  open  to  all  the  Ferry  customers,  and  trade  was 
a  little  brisker  than  usual,  owing  to  the  fact  having 
circulated  that  one  of  the  survivors  of  j'esterday's 
tragedy  was  in  the  house.  Old  men  came  in  who 
talked  of  angling,  laid  bets  on  the  weight  of  the  pike 
which  had  been  taken  ;  and  on  the  weight  of  the 
pike  which  had  broken  away  gave  rein  to  their  im- 
agination. 

Young  men  and  women  were  there  who  talked  of 
the  yacht  and  the  house-boat.  And  many  curious 
glances  were  cast  at  the  pale  young  woman  with  the 
dark  red  hair  sitting  so  quietly  in  the  corner. 

Seeing  this,  Bill  interposed,  as  far  as  was  possible, 
his  broad  back  between  that  loved  form  of  hers  and 
the  gaze  of  the  vulgar ;  and  Caroline  suggested  that 
Betty  and  herself  should  retire  to  the  privacy  of  a 
bedroom. 

But  Betty  refused.  "  I  am  not  ill,"  she  said.  "  Why 
should  I  go  to  my  bedroom  ?  I  will  go  for  a  walk 
with  Bill  if  he  will  take  me." 

And  they  went,  leaving  Caroline  shocked  at  the 
indecorousness  of  such  a  proceeding.  "  Has  the  girl, 
positively,  no  heart?"  she  asked  herself.  And  many 


1  HAD  MY  WAY.  235 

times  afterward  she  asked  that  question  of  Bill — who 
could  have  told  her,  perhaps.  Such  a  small  unusual- 
ness  of  procedure  is  sufficient  to  alienate  the  sym- 
pathies of  a  woman  living  by  line  and  rule  as  did 
Caroline  Jervois. 

So,  those  two,  in  the  growing  dusk  of  the  evening, 
walked  up  the  straight  level  road  where  the  river, 
running  parallel,  was  hidden  from  them  by  tall  hedges 
but  where  whiffs  of  its  odor  reached  them  continually 
on  the  wings  of  a  warm,  moist  wind,  blowing  inward. 

"  I  can't  talk  before  Caroline,"  she  said,  "  but 
you  must  be  told  about  it." 

"  Would  you  rather  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Think  only  of 
yourself,  Betty  :  not  of  me." 

"  Haven't  I  always  done  that  ?  "  she  asked  him. 
"  Isn't  that  why  Violet  is  dead  ?  It  is  because  I  think 
of  myself  I  must  tell  you.  I  must  tell  you  or  die. 
All  last  night  they  kept  me  in  bed,  and  a  great 
woman,  whom  I  hated,  sat  and  looked  at  me,  till  I 
did  not  know  where  I  was,  or  what  I  said.  And  once 
I  felt  that  I  had  been  saying  the  same  thing  over  and 
over ;  and  I  could  not  remember  what.  And  this 
morning  I  heard  her  telling  the  landlady  that  I  had 
been  all  night  calling  for  Bill  and  crying  out  that  I 
wanted  to  tell  him." 

"  Tell  me  then,  dear,"  he  said,  and  took  her  hand 
and  pulled  it  through  his  arm. 

But,  after  all,  the  task  was  beyond  her.  Coherently 
she  could  not  tell  him. 

"  I  was  always  a  brute  to  her,  do  you  remem- 
ber, Bill  ?  Even  long  ago  when  I  was  a  baby  al- 
most. I  despised  her  for  the  sweetness  and  the  gen- 
tleness you  all  praised,  and  I  ill-used  her  to  the  best 
of  my  ability.  She  never  retaliated,  and  I  hated  her 


236  THE  CEDAR  STAR. 

for  that,  too.  She  saved  it  all  up  to  the  finish. 
When  she  let  herself  drown  instead  of  me,  she  took 
her  revenge  for  it  all,  Bill." 

"  My  dear,  she  loved  you  as  we  all  do.  Her  re- 
venge is  the  last  thing  she  would  have  wished  for." 

"  And  that  is  what  makes  it  perfect.  You  see  how 
it  is,  Bill,  don't  you  ?  I  suppose  I  am  not  like  other 
women — I  saw  Caroline's  look  of  horror  when  I  came 
out  to  walk.  I  can't  cry  and  moan — I  have  not  shed 
a  tear — but  my  life  has  become  hideous  to  me  through 
her  self-sacrifice.  You  know  what  a  mighty  good 
opinion  I  have  always  had  of  myself?  I  shall  have 
to  get  through  the  rest  of  n^  existence  with  the  knowl- 
edge that  the  woman  whom  in  my  heart  I  despised, 
envied,  hated — oh,  it  is  true  !  I  am  not  raving  1  You 
had  better  let  me  take  my  hand  away — did  this  thing 
for  me.  You  see  I  loved  her  husband,  Bill,  I — you 
said  it  yourself — I  tempted  him  to  love  me — " 

Carlyon  flung  up  the  arm  that  held  her  hand  to  his 
side,  "  Oh,  for  God's  sake,  Betty  1  "  he  cried. 

"  It  is  true — it  is  all  true,  and  she  gave  her  life 
to  save  mine." 

Her  eyes  were  quite  tearless,  but  she  moaned  as 
she  spoke.  No  Aveeping  of  hers  could  have  rent  the 
man's  heart  like  that  sound  from  her  lips — Bett3r's, 
whose  happiness  he  had  once  been  able  to  make  with 
a  word !  He  caught  her  hand  again  and  held  it 
clasped  in  his  own. 

"  Look  here !  "  he  said  with  authority,  "  I  will  not 
listen  to  this.  You  must  not  dwell  on  it.  It  is  exag- 
gerated, morbid.  Because  Yiolet,  in  her  death,  was 
what  she  had  been  in  life,  unselfish,  devoted,  self-sacri- 
ficing, are  you  to  make  yourself  wretched  ?  Suppos- 
ing that  what  she  did,  she  did  consciously,  which,  a? 


/  HAD  MY  WAT.  237 

far  as  I  can  learn,  appears  doubtful,  are  you  to  thank 
her  by  counting  the  life  she  gave  you — worthless  ?  " 

"  It  is  worse  than  worthless.  It  is  a  hideous,  hor- 
rible burden.  Oh,  has  not  she  the  best  of  it,  Bill  ? 
Don't  you  think  I  would  gladly  be  lying  where  she 
is  ?  How  gladly — how  gladly — how  gladly  !  " 

Her  voice  died  away  on  the  wail  of  the  words  and 
she  was  silent.  Bill  knew  that  for  the  moment  she 
was  unconscious  of  him  who  walked  at  her  side  and 
held  her  hand,  saw  only  the  drowned  woman  upon  her 
bed  and  the  man  that  kept  his  watch  near. 

And  in  the  silence  that  followed,  many  thoughts 
came  to  Bill.  He  thought  of  Violet — gentle  uncom- 
plaining, sweet — to  whom  the  Fates  had  at  length 
been  kind,  removing  her  from  the  path  of  a  man  who 
did  not  want  her.  He  remembered  how  with  her 
death,  the  obstacle  to  Betty's  happiness — or  what  she 
would  mistake  for  happiness — was  removed.  How, 
her  present  natural  grief  and  horror  past,  she  would 
come  to  recognize  that  Violet's  death,  instead  of  ruin- 
ing her  life,  had  made  it.  He  thought  of  Harringay, 
false,  self-indulgent,  unscrupulous — he  called  him 
these  things  in  his  heart  now,  and  gripping  Betty's 
hand  painfully,  and  set  his  teeth  hard — of  Harringay, 
catching  at  any  happiness  he  coveted — that  legiti- 
mately another  man's  for  choice — ruining  he  cared 
not  what  lives  and  hearts,  and  souls,  accepting  the 
sacrifice  of  all  that  was  fairest  and  most  sacred  to 
minister  to  his  own  pleasure  and  vanity — of  Harrin- 
gay holding  Betty's  fate  in  his  grasp  at  last  1 

"  I  killed  her,  you  know,"  Betty  was  saying  to  him. 
"  It  was  no  one's  fault  but  mine.  We  went  on  the 
river  the  evening  before — what  ages  ago  it  seems  ! — 
without  her.  She  was  afraid  to  be  alone  in  a  strange 


238  THE  CEDAR  STAR. 

place,  and  vre  left  her  alone — for  hours.  She  asked 
me  to  stop  with  her  the  next  evening,  and  I  would 
not.  So  she  came.  She  sat  quite  alone.  No  one 
spoke  to  her,  and  what  we  said  she  could  not  hear. 
And  the  excursion  steamer  passed — a  hideous  monster, 
crowded  !  She  had  not  heard  the  sound  of  the  music 
on  board  as  we  had  done  for  long.  When  it  passed 
her  coming  out  of  the  mist  she  gave  a  cry,  she  was  so 
timid  on  the  water.  And  no  one  spoke  to  reassure 
her.  Then  the  swell  came.  And  she  kept  crying  out 
and  clinging  to  the  side  of  the  boat.  And  he  called 
to  her  to  sit  straight — that  it  was  all  right." 

Betty  broke  off,  losing  herself,  back  in  the  boat, 
rocking  heavily  on  the  water,  hearing  the  irritable 
voice  calling  instructions  to  the  frightened  figure  in 
the  stern.  She  lived  again  through  the  horror  of  that 
moment,  when  Violet,  bewildered  and  frightened,  but 
hearing  the  sound  of  her  husband's  voice,  got  to  her 
feet,  and  started,  staggering,  to  go  to  him.  "  Sit 
down ! "  Harringaj*  had  thundered.  She  had  heard 
him,  but  too  late.  Involuntarily  he  had  started  up 
to  catch  her  as  she  fell,  and  there  had  been  a  rush  of 
water,  a  crashing  darkness — and  Betty,  mercifully 
stunned  in  the  disaster,  had  known  no  more. 

The  steamer,  unconscious  of  the  ruin  she  had  left 
in  her  rear,  had  passed  on  into  the  gre}r  mists.  Help, 
however,  had  come  from  another  quarter.  A  man  on 
the  towing  path  who  had  seen  the  accident  but  could 
not  swim,  had  run  to  the  riverside  cottage,  where 
Violet  now  lay.  With  the  help  of  the  man  who  lived 
there,  a  boat  had  been  rowed  to  the  scene  of  the  dis- 
aster. 

But  when  succor  came  it  was  too  late  for  one  of  the 
unfortunate  three.  Harringay,  though  all  but  ex- 


/  SAD  MY  WAY.  239 

hausted,  had  tried  to  keep  afloat  with  the  helpless 
burden  of  one  unconscious  woman  ;  but  the  wife,  who 
for  a  time  clung  to  him,  impeding  his  every  move- 
ment, had  of  her  own  accord  released  her  hold  of  him 
and  perished. 

"  They  say  that  you  were  for  several  minutes  in  the 
water.  He  showed  great  endurance,"  Bill  said,  forc- 
ing himself  to  bring  out  the  unready  words.  "  We 
owe  him  a  debt  of  gratitude." 

"  There  will  be  no  paying  of  debts,"  Betty  said,  "  I 
shall  never  see  him  again,  I  pray  God.  I  wish  he  was 
not  so  near  to-night.  I  wish  that  whole  world  might 
be  placed  between  him  and  me.  I  wish  I  never  might 
hear  his  name,  or  remember  a  word  he  has  ever  spoken, 
or  see  his  face  even  in  my  dreams." 

"  I  wish  that  too,  Betty,"  Carlyon  said,  sickly,  from 
his  heart. 

"  I  wish  I  might  wipe  out  of  my  life  every  day  with 
which  he  has  bad  anything  to  do.  Oh,  Bill  I  To  have 
my  life  a  blank  and  no  names  written  there  but  my 
little  sister's  and  Peter's  and  yours  1  And  yours,  Bill 
— not  his — not  his — but  yours  !  " 

She  tore  her  hand  out  of  his  at  that  and  flung  it 
before  her  eyes,  and  without  more  ado  broke  into  wild 
and  irrepressible  weeping. 

That  night  when  Betty  was  in  bed,  at  once  worn 
out  and  calmed  by  her  unrestrained  tears,  Bill  Carl- 
yon  put  on  his  hat  and  went  out  once  more.  He 
crossed  the  rank-growing  untrimmed  grass  lying  be- 
fore the  house  and  stood  long  by  the  river,  lying 
placid  under  the  starlight,  lapping  with  a  soft  mys- 
terious sound  the  green  banks.  To  Carlyon,  listen- 
ing, its  voice  became  articulate,  and  all  that  disjointed, 
incoherent  story  which  Betty  had  told  him,  pieced  out 


240  THE  CEDAR  STAR. 

with  the  details  learned  elsewhere,  the  river  told  him 
again  as  he  walked  by  its  shore. 

Through  its  voice  he  heard  the  whispering  voices 
of  the  man  and  woman  in  the  boat  drifting  on  the 
placid  bosom  of  the  river,  their  eyes  on  each  others' 
face.  The  scant  words — where  no  need  of  words  was, 
dropping  now  and  then  through  the  murmur  of  the 
water. 

Bill  shut  his  ears  to  the  revelations  of  the  river 
song  and  turned  his  inward  gaze  to  that  slight,  lonely 
figure  in  the  stern  of  the  boat.  Poor  Violet !  In 
what  a  perpetual  loneliness  had  her  days  been  passed. 
He  saw  the  sweet  face  with  its  anxious,  listening  air, 
the  yearning  sadness  in  the  eyes,  and  that  familiar 
look  of  the  straining  ear,  the  wistful  anxiety  to  catch 
what  her  companions  might  be  saying  to  each  other. 
He  thought  of  the  trustful,  gentle-natured  girl  whom 
he  had  loved  in  his  youth — "  Alas !  poor  Violet,"  he 
said,  "  to  you  at  least  the  river  has  been  kind  !  " 

Walking  along  the  river-bank  he  came  in  the  course 
of  a  mile  to  that  cottage  which  had  been  indicated  to 
him,  standing  by  itself  in  its  melancholy  plot  of 
ground. 

A  faint  light  shone,  riverward,  from  two  of  its 
windows.  Carlyon  put  his  long  legs  over  the  low 
hedge  which  divided  the  cottage  garden  from  the 
fields  on  which  it  stood,  and  approached  the  first  of 
these  windows. 

In  the  dimly  illuminated  room,  bare  and  comfortless 
looking,  with  curtainless  window,  stained  and  mil- 
dewed walls,  and  scanty  furniture  of  deal  table  and 
chairs,  Harringay  was  sitting. 

Carlyon  glanced  at  the  lonely  figure,  its  back  to 
him,  with  broad  hunched  shoulders,  leaning  forward 


I  HAD  MY  WAY.  241 

over  the  embers  of  the  fire,  and  quickly  turned 
away.  He  did  not  want  to  spy  upon  such  a  vigil  as 
that. 

In  the  next  room,  from  which  the  light  also 
streamed  upon  the  rank  growing  herbage  at  his  feet, 
Carlyon  knew  quite  well  what  he  would  see.  It  was 
the  room  in  which  the  inquest  was  to  be  held  to- 
morrow. 

The  long  table  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  of  fresh 
scrubbed  bricks,  the  sharp  outlines  of  the  still  form 
the  sheet  covered!  Oh,  Betty,  Betty  Jervois!  Bet- 
ter that  the  width  of  a  world  should  divide  you  from 
the  man  you  love  than  that  you  should  be  brought 
nearer  to  him  by  this  ! 

He  waited  till  the  door  of  the  room  slowly  opened, 
till  Harringay,  with  ashen,  deathlike  face,  but  with 
restless  eyes,  came  into  the  chamber  of  death,  came 
up  to  the  dreadful  table,  and  with  hands  clasped 
behind  his  back  looked  down  upon  the  shrouded 
form. 

Then,  with  that  bitterness  back  in  his  heart,  which 
the  sight  of  the  dead  woman  lying  there  in  her  loneli- 
ness had  driven  from  it,  Carlyon  turned  away. 

When,  a  couple  of  hours  later,  he  went  slowly  up- 
stairs to  the  little  chamber  with  the  sloping  ceiling 
and  the  slanting  floor,  and  the  mingled  scent  of 
mildew  and  of  river,  which  had  been  allotted  him, 
Caroline  in  her  wrapper  came  out  to  him  upon  the 
landing. 

"  She  is  asleep,"  she  said,  "  but  she  dreams  con- 
tinually of  the  accident,  continually  half-awakes  her- 
self and  always  calls  upon  your  name." 

"  My  name ! "  said  Bill. 

And  Caroline,  knowing  of  no  cause  of  grief  but 
16 


242  THE  CEDAR  8TAE. 

Violet's  death,  wondered  at  the  tone,  and  at  the 
havoc  the  hours  had  written  plainly  upon  her  brother's 
face. 

"  Considering  how  things  are  between  you  there  is 
nothing  surpi'ising  in  that,  I  suppose,"  she  said. 

"  Nothing,  of  course,"  said  Bill.  "  If  she  wakes 
again  tell  her  I  am  close  at  hand — and  awake,  will 
you,  Caroline?" 


END  OP   PAET  II. 


PART  III. 

"  Ob,  say  not  ye  that  summer's  over, 

When  birds  within  the  rood  stop  singing! 

While  hands  still  touch  in  desperate  clinging 
Some  ghost  of  hope  in  hearts  must  hover, 
Though  died  the  dream  of  loved  and  lover 

While  yet  the  marriage-bells  were  ringing. 
Oh  say  not  ye  that  summer's  over 

When  birds  within  the  wood  stop  singing ! " 


'INEVITABLE  AS  DEATH."  245 


CHAPTER  I. 

"INEVITABLE  AS  DEATH." 

IT  was  the  lunch  hour  at  the  Walker  School. 

Some  score  or  so  of  boys  and  girls,  women  and  men 
were  standing  about  the  big  white  stone  entrance-hall, 
talking  in  groups,  or  sitting,  with  sandwiches  in  their 
laps,  on  the  white  stairs,  or  preparing  in  twos  or  threes 
to  sally  forth.  This  was  the  most  important  day  of 
the  year  and  the  students  were  discussing  a  matter 
which  was  to  each  one  of  engrossing  interest,  the 
awarding  of  the  Walker  scholarship. 

"  She  is  the  last  I  should  have  picked  on,"  a  girl 
leaning  by  the  balusters  said. 

"  The  very  last !  "  fell  in  a  chorus  from  those  around 
her. 

"  She  is  so  full  of  mannerisms,"  an  old  young  lady 
remarked.  She  had  short  hair  and  a  flat  bosom,  and 
she  stood  in  an  uncomfortable  pose  against  the  wall 
with  her  hands  clasped  at  the  back  of  her  head. 

"  It  is  her  mannerism,  that  the  professor  en- 
courages," some  one  answered. 

"  The  professor  encourages  her  a  great  deal  too 
much,"  the  old  young  lady  replied. 

"  It  isn't  a  failing  of  his !  He  don't  encourage  me," 
said  with  a  laugh  a  short  youth  in  eyeglasses  with  an 
upturned  nose. 

"  Nor  me !  nor  me ! "  cried  the  rest  good-hu- 
moredly. 

"  He  asked  me  to-day  why  I  was  not  content  to 


246  TEE  CEDAR  STAR. 

stay  at  home  and  paint  fuchsias,"  a  delicate  featured 
girl  with  a  weak  voice  and  a  plaintive  manner  re- 
marked, "  I  don't  know  what  he  meant.  I  haven't  the 
least  desire  to  paint  fuchsias.  I  want  to  draw  men 
and  women." 

"  You  heard  what  he  said  to  that  tow-headed  girl 
with  the  squint,  the  other  day  in  the  antique  room  ? 
You  know  how  she  fancies  herself?  She  had  done  a 
discobulus — " 

"  She  always  does  them !  She  fastened  on  that 
statue  the  first  day  she  came  and  has  never  left  it." 

"  Well,  the  professor  has  shirked  her  easel  as  much 
as  possible,  hitherto,  but  this  morning,  with  an  air  of 
resignation  enough  to  break  your  heart  to  contemplate, 
he  sat  down  before  it.  He  sat  for  long,  and  Towhead, 
standing  behind  him  smirked  and  smiled,  having  ex- 
celled herself  in  the  matter  of  smudging  in  her  shadows 
— you  know  her  way  ?  Presently  he  sighed  and  looked 
up  at  Towhead.  '  Can  you  sew  ?'  he  asked  her  in  his 
tone  of  limp  despair.  She  resented  the  insinuation, 
and  hastily  informed  him  that  she  couldn't.  '  Then 
go  home  and  learn  to  sew,'  he  said  '  you  will  never 
learn  to  draw.'  " 

"  The  winner  of  the  scholarship  has  neither  a  tow 
head  nor  a  squint,"  remarked  a  big  young  man  who 
sat  on  a  table  against  the  wall  and  swung  his  legs  with 
his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  staircase. 

"  Neither  have  I !  "  cried  a  pretty  dark  girl  in  a  red 
painting  apron,  standing  before  him  that  he  might  see 
for  himself  if  he  desired,  "  and  I  can  draw.  But  all  I 
ever  get  from  the  professor  is  one  of  those  prodigious 
sighs,  and  a  resigned  '  Go  on.  Well — go  on.'  " 

"  He  is  a  darling  all  the  same,"  cried  half  a  dozen 
young  voices  in  chorus. 


"INEVITABLE  AS  DEATH."  247 

"  But  he  has  made  a  mistake  about  the  scholarship," 
said  the  old  young  lad}'. 

"  He  never  makes  mistakes  !  "  again  in  chorus. 

"  I  like  Betty  Jervois,"  said  the  pretty  girl  in  the 
red  pinafore.  "  She  isn't  always  agreeable,  but  she  is 
the  handsomest  girl  in  the  Walker,  and  there's  some 
of  us  take  a  lot  of  beating.  She  mayn't  have  deserved 
the  scholarship,  but  I'm  glad  she's  got  it." 

"  Here  she  comes,"  said  the  young  man  on  the  table, 
and  ceased  to  swing  his  legs. 

Betty  Jervois,  hatted  and  cloaked,  came  down  the 
wide  stairs,  intent,  apparently,  on  the  buttoning  of 
her  gloves.  One  or  two  of  the  girls,  busy  with  their 
sandwiches,  looked  up  at  her,  and  let  her  pass  in 
silence.  Another  twitched  the  skirt  of  her  dress  as 
she  went  by  with  a  smiling  "  Well  done!  I'm  glad, 
Betty  1 "  The  young  man  on  the  table  softly  clapped 
his  hands  :  and  presently  they  were  all  clapping. 

Betty  looked  up  at  that,  and  laughed,  and  kissed 
the  hand  that  was  not  gloved,  impartiall}r,  to  them  all. 

"  You're  all  awfully  good,"  she  said  as  she  reached 
the  hall.  "  In  your  places  I  should  be  so  savage  !  As 
for  myself,  I  never  was  so  surprised  in  my  life.  I 
thought  my  attempt  was  fairly  good  till  I  saw  the 
others  sent  in.  Then,  honestly,  I  decided  mine  was 
the  worst  there." 

"  Ah !  If  you'd  told  me  that  I  could  have  promised 
you,  you  were  all  right,"  said  the  young  man  now 
standing  before  the  table,  "  I've  never  won  a  thing 
yet  that  I  haven't  been  sure  as  death  I  hadn't  a 
chance  of." 

And  they  listened  to  him  with  respect,  for  they  all 
knew  he  had  won  everything  he  had  gone  in  for. 

He  followed  Betty  Jervois  out  of  the  big  doors  and 


248  THE  CEDAR  STAR. 

under  the  Grecian  portico  and  caught  her  up  on  the 
weather-blackened  steps  that  ran  the  entire  length  of 
the  building.  Their  ways  lay  together  as  far  as  the 
house  in  which  Betty  Jervois,  with  several  of  the  art 
students,  boarded.  On  the  days  he  worked  at  the 
Walker  School  he  always  walked  to  and  from  the 
school  at  her  side.  He  was  that  Johnson  who  had 
been  a  friend  of  Peter's,  and  with  whom  Betty  had 
once  talked  of  sharing  a  flat. 

"  I  feel  such  a  fraud,"  she  said,  as  she  walked  at  his 
side  across  the  big  courtyard,  past  the  porter's  lodge 
and  through  the  iron  gates  into  that  melancholy,  de- 
serted street  in  which  the  Art  School  is  situated.  "  I 
don't  believe  I  deserve  what  I've  got  one  bit." 

"  Nonsense !  "  he  said  reassuringly.  "  There  was  no 
one  in  it  for  a  second  but  }rou  and  that  poor  deformed 
girl.  All  the  rest  were  nowhere." 

"  I  wish  she'd  had  it.  I  feel  as  if  I'd  cheated  her. 
I  told  the  professor  so  this  morning.  I  said  if  it  was 
such  a  near  thing  it  ought  to  have  been  given  to  her." 

"  The  professor  naturally  asked  why  ? " 

"  I  meant  because  of  her  back,  poor  thing !  but  I 
didn't  like  to  say  it.  I  said  because  she  had  nothing 
but  her  art." 

"  And  you,  I  suppose,  have  ever}Tthing,  Miss  Jer- 
vois?" Johnson  inquired  with  a  sigh. 

"  Of  course  he  snubbed  me.  He  reminded  me  that 
the  committee  did  not  sit  for  the  purpose  of  judging 
the  private  histories  of  students  but  their  work." 

"  Didn't  he  tell  you  it  was  cheek  in  you  to  sit  in 
judgment  on  the  verdict  of  the  committee?" 

"  Imagine  the  professor  applying  such  an  epithet  to 
the  conduct  of  a  lady  !  " 

"That's  for  me,  I  suppose?     You  must  consider 


" INEVITABLE  AS  DEATH.11  249 

me  a  poor  spirited  sort  of  fellow  to  be  always  dang- 
ling at  your  heels,  spite  of  the  nasty  knocks  you  give 
me." 

" '  Nasty  knocks ! '  To  be  inured  to  the  rough-and- 
ready  give  and  take  of  student  life,  and  to  gibe  at  my 
mild  little  sarcasms !  " 

"  The  worst  is,  I  know  well  I'm  not  the  only  one." 

"  The  only  '  dangler  at  my  heels  ? '  If  you  mean 
by  that  you  are  not  the  only  man  who  walks  home 
with  me  to  Stanfield  Gardens,  you  are  making  a  mis- 
statement,  for  you  certainly  are." 

"  On  my  off-days  you  walk  alone  ?  " 

"  Nearly  always." 

"  I  am  more  than  grateful  for  my  privilege,  Miss 
Jervois." 

Once  or  twice  as  they  had  talked,  he  had  turned 
his  head  to  look  behind  him.  "  Why  do  you  do  that  ?  " 
she  asked  him  presently. 

"  You  didn't  see  that  man  in  a  blue  great-coat  that 
was  waiting  against  the  gates  as  we  came  through  ? 
I  felt  half  inclined  to  ask  him  what  he  was  staring  at, 
that's  all.  Another  conquest,  you  see.  I  thought  I 
saw  him  following  us." 

"  If  you  keep  turning  round  to  look  for  him,  he 
probably  will.  How  foolish  3-011  are  about  some  things, 
Mr.  Johnson,  although  you  are  so  clever  with  your 
pencil  1 " 

"  About  what,  for  instance  ?  " 

"  My  '  conquests  ! '  How  absurd  !  They  are  all  in 
your  imagination.  I  know  of  none." 

"  You  know  of  one.  Come,  Betty !  You  know  you 
finished  me  off  long  and  long  ago.  Peter  knew  it." 

"  I  know  you  say  so." 

"Is  it  any  use  ? — that's  what  I  want  to  make  out. 


250  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

Will  it  ever  come  to  anything  more  than  my  walking 
home  from  the  school  three  days  a  week  with  you  ?  " 

"  Never.  You  can't  be  in  any  doubt  about  it,  Harry. 
I've  told  you  so,  a  dozen  times." 

"  I  dare  say  you'll  have  to  tell  me  a  dozen  times 
more,  but  I  shall  hang  on  still,"  he  said  with  melan- 
choly fervor. 

She  laughed :  "  You  are  very  foolish.  Not  that, 
perhaps,  it  hurts  you.  If  I  thought  I  did  I  should 
cut  you  for  the  future.  But  you  can't  think  I  don't 
know  my  own  mind  ?  I  am  not,  you  see,  an  inex- 
perienced girl — I  have  lived  through  my  history — 
such  as  it  was — and  done  with  it." 

"  In  that  year  you  were  away  ?  I  always  knew 
there  was  something.  Oh,  I  read  you  like  a  book, 
Betty. — I  knew  there  was  something.  Sometimes  I've 
been  so  sick  and  savage  I've  felt  inclined  to  fling  down 
my  infernal — I  beg  your  pardon — my  brush,  and  go 
to  the  devil,  as  better  fellows  and  better  painters  have 
done.  And  then  again,  I  think  that  way  I  should 
lose  you  altogether,  for  I  shouldn't  be  fit  to  speak  to 
you.  And  so,  while  you  aren't  married,  or  engaged 
to  be  married — " 

"  As  I  never  shall  be — I  have  told  you." 

"  I  am  fool  enough  to  hang  on." 

"  And  if — knowing  all — you  are  fool  enough,  it 
won't  hurt  you.  Here  we  are  at  No.  7.  Good-bye." 

"  You  are  coming  to  the  conversazione  to-night, 
perhaps  ? " 

She  had  nodded  to  him  and  turned  to  mount  the 
steps  of  the  house  when  he  made  a  quick  step  after 
her. 

"  Don't  look  round,"  he  said.  "  It  is  as  I  thought 
— that  fellow  is  following  you.  Impertinent  brute !  " 


"INEVITABLE  AS  DEATH."  25l 

She  made  a  gesture  of  indifference,  ran  lightly  up 
the  steps  and  disappeared. 

"  The  silly  boy  1  "  she  said,  and  smiled  a  little  sadly 
to  herself  as  she  crossed  the  hall.  "  But  it  is  better 
for  him  to  make  himself  foolish  over  a  harmless,  self- 
respecting  woman  such  as  I  am  than  to  racket  about 
as  the  rest  do.  If  it  were  Peter  I  would  rather  have 
it  so.  Poor  Peter  !  I  wish  Peter  and  I  were  together 
again  in  our  darling  little  flat  next  the  sky  !  I  must 
write  to  him  about  the  prize.  I  must  write  to  Bill, 
too.  They  will  think  it  such  a  triumph  for  me,  re- 
membering how  my  soul  once  hungered  after  such 
distinctions !  I  shan't  tell  them  how  flat  I  feel  about 
it,  how  stale  and  unprofitable  everything  is." 

She  had  been  about  to  enter  one  of  the  rooms  which 
opened  into  the  spacious  hall,  but  she  paused  with  her 
hand  on  the  door  as  if  lacking  the  energy  to  proceed, 
and  her  figure  drooped  : 

"  Oh,  how  useless  everj'thing  is ! "  she  sighed. 
"  How  senseless  !  " 

She  drew  a  long  breath  and  pushed  open  the  door. 
The  dining-room  was  empty  at  present,  the  table  laid 
for  lunch.  Betty  walked  to  the  window,  listlessly 
pulled  the  curtain  on  one  side,  and  stood  there,  look- 
ing out  upon  the  dreary  plane  trees  in  the  garden 
opposite. 

A  man  in  a  blue  great-coat  passing  slowly  by  the 
area  railings,  turned  an  attentive  face  upon  the  house. 
When  he  had  passed  he  retraced  his  steps  and  passed 
again,  and  this  time  his  eyes  caught  the  eyes  of  the 
girl  looking  out. 

Betty  dropped  the  curtain  and  started  back  into 
the  room,  stood  there  motionless,  hardly  seeming  to 
breathe,  till  into  an  ashen  face  the  blood  came  rushing 


252  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

again,  and  the  heart  that  had  seemed  to  stand  still 
bounded  on  into  furious  beating.  She  could  not  have 
said  as  she  stood  there  wrapt  in  that  moment  of  in- 
tensest  emotion  if  what  she  felt  was  simply  exquisite 
pain,  or  joy  so  vivid  as  to  be  a  kind  of  pain.  She 
only  knew  that  here  was  life — life — life  once  again, 
and  Betty  Jervois  had  existed  as  one  in  the  torpor  of 
death. 

When  the  other  inmates — all  of  them  students  of 
something  or  another — came  trooping  into  the  dining- 
room,  Betty  went  upstairs  to  take  off  her  hat.  She 
stood  for  minutes  lost  in  feeling  rather  than  thought, 
trying  exactly  to  recall  the  vision  which  had  so  dis- 
turbed her.  All  that  her  consciousness  had  retained 
was  the  flash  of  the  eyes  as  her  own  had  fallen  upon 
them,  the  narrow,  pale  gray  eyes  so  curiously  full  of 
light. 

He  had  come  back,  the  man  whom  she  had  vowed 
to  herself  and  to  Bill  Carlyon  that  she  would,  God 
helping  her,  never  see  again.  The  man  who  would 
never  give  her  that  chance,  to  whom  the  sight  of  her 
must  be  hateful,  who  had  hastened  to  put  half  a  world 
between  himself  and  herself,  who,  she  had  never 
wearied  of  telling  herself,  would  never,  never,  while 
time  lasted,  come  back  any  more.  He  had  come,  and 
she  was  filled  with  a  tumultuous,  painful  gladness, 
which  gradually,  as  remembrance  regained  its  ascend- 
ancy over  feeling,  died  down  in  her  heart,  leaving  it 
empty,  cold  and  sad. 

He  had  come  :  and  that  he  would  certainly  seek  to 
meet  her,  she,  being  a  fairly  honest  person,  did  not 
pretend  to  doubt.  She  was  afire  with  excitement  to 
think  he  would  certainly  come,  and  ice  at  the  recall- 
ing of  what  must  be  her  course. 


"INEVITABLE  AS  DEATH.1'  253 

"  I  long — I  long  to  see  him  !  "  throbbed  her  heart. 
"  I  must  not,  I  must  not,"  preached  her  conscience. 

She  would  not  go  down  to  lunch  to  hear  the  talk  of 
the  conversazione  to  which  most  of  the  students  were 
going  that  evening,  to  sit  through  the  comments  on 
the  awarding  of  the  Scholarship — how  long  ago  it 
seemed !  She  pulled  her  cloak  warmly  about  her,  and 
sat  down  on  her  bed,  and  tried  to  get  the  mastery  of 
her  own  thoughts,  and  to  subdue  that  tempest  of  feel- 
ing which  surged  within  her. 

Presently  she  got  up  and  unlocked  a  box  which  had 
lain  within  another  at  the  bed's  foot.  It  was  there 
that  were  hid  the  few  treasures  from  which  she  never 
parted.  These  were  the  contents  of  the  drawer  her 
father  had  confided  to  her  care.  Some  small  belong- 
ings which  had  been  lan's  had  crept  in  among  them  : 
a  portrait  of  the  child  which  Betty  had  long  ago 
drawn  from  memory ;  an  elementary  representation 
of  Paul,  the  kitten,  dating  back  to  schoolroom  days. 

It  was  not  at  these  mementoes  Betty  looked  now. 
She  put  them  with  reverent  touch  on  one  side,  and 
presently  drew  out  a  Bible.  The  Book  was  old  in 
point  of  age,  but  not,  alas,  much  fingered.  It  was  one 
which  Violet  Belton  had  given  her  on  a  long  ago 
birthday  ;  a  gift  acknowledged  without  enthusiasm  by 
the  recipient,  who  had  desired  a  collar  for  Mr.  Chip- 
ling  instead.  Within  its  pages  she  had  hidden  away 
an  unmounted  photograph  of  Mrs.  Harringay  which 
Violet  had  also  given  her  on  her  last  ill-omened  visit. 
Since  the  catastrophe  with  which  that  visit  had  con- 
cluded Betty  had  feared  to  look  upon  this  representa- 
tion of  the  dead  cousin.  The  shrinking  she  had  felt 
was  intensified  to-day  an  hundredfold ;  but  she  con- 
strained herself. 


254  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

The  placid,  gentle  face  smiled  up  at  her  from 
between  the  sacred  leaves  with  its  wistful,  strained 
expression.  Betty  gripped  the  Bible  in  a  tighter 
clasp  and  stared,  her  first  aversion  past,  as  if  fasci- 
nated into  the  pictured  eyes.  And  as  she  looked,  and 
as  she  clasped  the  Book  the  tumult  died  down  within 
her,  the  world  grew  steady  about  her  feet,  her  mental 
vision  cleared. 

Then  the  door  bell  rang. 

Betty  started  to  her  feet.  Running  downstairs  she 
intercepted  the  servant  as  she  crossed  the  hall :  "  If 
that  is  someone  for  me  I  am  not  at  home,"  she  said. 

While  the  outer  door  was  opened  she  darted  within 
the  nearest  room  and  stood  there,  unconsciously  fold- 
ing the  Bible  and  its  enclosure  against  her  breast, 
straining  her  ears  to  catch  the  tones  of  the  voice  that 
spoke. 

It  was  her  name  that  she  heard — she  had  known  it 
would  be  so — and  pronounced  in  the  familiar  tones — 
the  tones  that  held  the  power  to  play  upon  Betty 
Jervois's  heart  as  the  master-hand  upon  the  harp 
strings. 

She  gave  a  smothered  cry,  like  a  gasp  for  breath  as 
she  heard  them,  and  darted  forward — too  late.  The 
door  was  shut  upon  Harringay's  retreating  figure,  and 
Betty  stood,  staring  blankly  upon  it,  with  Violet's 
picture,  which  had  fluttered  unperceived  to  the  ground, 
smiling  up  at  her  from  her  feet. 


THE   WALKER  CONVERSAZIONE.  255 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  WALKER   CONVERSAZIONE. 

THE  Walker  Art  School  was  in  festival.  The  cold 
stone  stairs  had  put  on  their  gala  attire  of  red  felt ; 
the  white  bareness  of  hall  and  corridors  was  hidden 
by  tall  palms,  and  ferns,  and  azaleas  in  bloom  ;  in  the 
Antique  Room  the  statues  stood  out,  pure  and  cold 
and  white,  from  their  background  of  dark  drapery 
and  bright  flowers. 

By  the  side  of  now  one,  now  another,  distinguished 
visitor,  among  the  two  or  three  hundred  guests  the 
professor  moved  about,  favoring  with  an  especial 
smile  of  welcome  his  own  pupils,  who,  denuded  of 
their  artist's  blouses,  and  transfigured  in  their  becom- 
ing evening  dresses  he  had  some  trouble  in  recogniz- 
ing. 

"  Upon  my  word,  Greene,"  he  said  to  one  of  the 
subordinate  masters,  "  this  bevy  of  prett}'  women 
makes  me  nervous.  Out  of  their  regulation  attire 
one  recognizes  with  reminiscent  qualms  that  they  are 
on  the  same  plane  as  one's  self  and  not  so  many 
schoolgirls  to  snub,  and  scold,  and  sit  upon.  I  hope 
I  shall  have  recovered  from  this  impression  in  the 
morning  or  my  courage  will  be  sapped  and  my  use- 
fulness annihilated.  I  shall  be  caught  saying  civil 
things  to  incapacity  and  encouraging  mediocrity, 
Greene." 

"If  you  begin  to  treat  them  civilly  your  popularity 


256  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

is  lost,"  Greene  said,  "  It  is  because  I  am  careful  not  to 
hurt  their  feelings  that  my  opinions  are  considered  of 
no  value.  Look  at  this  ! "  as  a  group  of  dainty  look- 
ing girls  came  by,  bowing  and  smiling  at  the  professor, 
and  kindling  into  fresh  smiles  and  blushes  at  the  great 
man's  bow.  "  Perhaps  in  your  own  interests  and 
those  of  the  Walker  School  I  ought  to  warn  you 
against  the  ladies  most  fatally  equipped  for  wounding 
the  susceptible  heart.  For  instance,  that  Miss  Jer- 
vois  is  looking  particularly  handsome  to-night." 

"  Ah !  Where  is  she  ?  I  think  I'll  run  the  risk," 
the  professor  said. 

He  made  bis  way,  when  she  was  pointed  out  to  him, 
to  where  Betty,  momentarily  isolated  from  the  group 
of  which  she  had  formed  one.  sat  alone  on  the  crimson 
draped  pedestal  of  the  Dancing  Fawn.  She  was  sit- 
ting, elbow  on  knee,  chin  propped  in  hand,  leaning 
forward,  gazing  out  across  the  crowd  of  people  who 
filled  the  room  as  if  she  saw  nothing  of  them,  nor  was 
conscious  of  her  own  whereabout.  Her  black  dress 
of  silk  muslin  threw  into  relief  the  whiteness  of  her 
arms  and  neck.  She  wore  her  warm  red  hair  massed 
low  upon  her  neck,  and  she  wore  no  other  ornament. 
Her  appearance  had  lost  its  girlishness,  the  cheeks 
were  less  rounded,  the  lips  had  set  themselves  in 
firmer  curves,  her  gaze  was  serious — all  its  talent,  fun 
and  roguishness,  which  had  long  survived  her  child- 
hood, gone.  Her  vitality  appeared  lower.  Yet  it 
seemed  to-night  that  she  had  lost  these  things  with- 
out the  loss  of  beauty. 

She  dropped  the  chin-supporting  arm  as  the  pro- 
fessor approached,  and  leaning  back  against  the  Fawn 
looked  up  at  him. 

"  I  have  been  showing  your  picture  tbis  evening  to 


THE   WALKER   CONVERSAZIONE.  257 

a  friend  of  mine  who  tells  me  he  is  also  a  friend  of 
yours,  Miss  Jervois,"  the  professor  said. 

("  The  unextinguishable  Johnson,"  said  Betty  by 
way  of  explanation  to  herself). 

u  He  said  some  very  complimentar}^  things  about 
your  work  ;  and  some  others  which  I  should  have 
liked  you  to  hear." 

"  Not  so  complimentary,  I  suppose  ? "  said  "Betty 
with  her  smile. 

"  I  won't  say  that,"  said  the  professor,  with  a 
deprecatory  shake  of  the  head.  "  His  opinion  is 
worth  having,  of  course,  and  that  is  why  I  mention 
it.  You  know  of  whom  I  speak  ?  Edward  Harrin- 
gay.  He  agrees  with  me  for  instance  that  the  pose 
of  the  central  figure — " 

But  here  with  a  hurried, "  Excuse  me  for  a  moment," 
the  professor  suddenly  turned  away,  his  eyes  having 
lit  upon  the  face  of  a  newcomer,  a  star  of  great  mag- 
nitude in  the  artistic  world. 

Betty  Jervois  sat  as  he  had  left  her  with  whitened 
lips.  If  he  was  here  then  the  matter  was  out  of  her 
hands — how  could  she  help  seeing  him  ?  It  would  be 
by  no  voluntary  act  that  her  vow  would  be  broken. 
Her  eyes  full  of  fear  and  eagerness  roved  over  the 
crowd.  Then  Johnson  came  and  stood  before  her. 

"  Why  were  you  so  late  in  coming  ? "  he  asked,  "  I 
had  almost  given  you  up.  I  have  been  standing  in 
the  Bone  Room  by  your  picture,  listening  to  the  re- 
marks of  the  fools  who  stopped  to  look  at  it.  You 
would  not  always  have  been  gratified." 

"  I  suppose  not." 

"  Yet  it  has  attracted  more  comment  of  one  sort  or 
another  than  anything  else  here.     I  have  been  very 
proud  of  you." 
17 


258  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

She  smiled  vaguely,  wishing  he  would  get  out  of 
the  way  and  not  impede  her  watch  upon  the  crowd. 
"  Nonsense,  Harry,"  she  said. 

"  I'll  tell  you  someone  else  who  is  proud  of  you — 
you  won't  be  so  indifferent.  The  professor.  " 

He  paused  to  watch  the  effect  of  the  electrifying 
announcement. 

"  Oh,  nonsense  1  "  said  Betty  again,  with  the  former 
unmeaning  smile. 

"  But  I  heard  what  he  said  !  He  was  talking,  by 
the  wajr,  to  that  ver}r  man  I  told  you  of — the 
fellow  I  thought  followed  us  home  this  morning.  He 
appears  to  know  what  he  is  talking  about,  and  I  could 
see  he  was  mightily  impressed  by  your  picture.  I 
wanted  to  point  him  out  to  you  ;  but  he  left  before 
you  came." 

"  Are  you  certain  of  that  ?  " 

"  Quite.  But  I  can  tell  you  what  he  said.  Come 
into  the  Bone  Room." 

"  Look — there  is  Amy  Masters  coming  in.  Go  and 
bring  her  to  me  and  we  will  all  go  together." 

But  when  he  left  her  she  rose  at  once  to  her  feet 
and  made  her  way  hurriedly  to  the  room  where  the 
pictures  for  the  scholarship  competition  had  been 
temporarily  hung.  The  groups  of  people  among 
whom  she  passed  looked  with  some  surprise  at  the 
handsome  young  woman  who  moved  amid  the  pur- 
poseless throng  with  such  eager  purpose  in  her  face. 
At  the  moment  Betty  was  not  even  conscious  of  them. 
Her  whole  being  was  filled  with  the  thought  that 
Harringay  had  seen  her  picture,  had  lingered  by  it, 
speaking  of  it  and  of  her. 

He  was  gone  !  After  all  she  could  keep  her  word  ! 
But  she  could  also  stand  where  he  had  stood,  she 


THE   WALKER   CONVERSAZIONE.  259 

could  try  to  see  her  picture  with  his  eyes,  it  would 
never,  never  seem  worthless  to  her  any  more  to 
imagine  what  his  thoughts  had  been  as  he  had  looked 
at  it. 

Small  knots  of  people  had  gathered  before  each  of 
the  pictures,  not  in  most  cases  with  any  view  of  dis- 
cussing those  ambitious  efforts,  but  simply  as  natural 
resting  places  in  an  aimless  progress  through  the 
room.  The  little  group  of  people  before  Betty's 
"  Hereward  "  had  turned  their  backs  upon  the  prize- 
drawing,  the  outcome  of  unremitting  labor  to  its 
author,  the  cause  to  others  of  such  heart-burning  and 
bitter  disappointment.  By  the  fragments  of  conver- 
sation she  caught,  it  was  evident  to  Betty  that  they 
were  not  discussing  the  merits  or  otherwise  of  her 
central  pose,  but  were  laughing  over  the  adventures 
of  a  tall  young  man  who  had  been  driven  to  the  Art 
School  by  a  tipsy  cabman.  The  unfortunate  fare,  it 
appeared,  had  been  taken  half  over  London  before  be- 
ing at  length  deposited  at  his  desired  destination,  and 
he  had  refused  to  pay  for  the  unnecessary  length  of 
the  drive. 

"  If  you'd  said  you  was  a  bloomin'  schoolboy  I 
should  ha'  knowed  where  you  wanted  to  be  took,"  the 
Jehu  had  called  after  the  retreating  form  of  the  young 
man  as  he  had  mounted  the  steps  of  the  Walker 
School. 

The  tall  young  man  told  the  story  with  great  dra- 
matic power,  and  was  rewarded  by  appreciative 
laughter  by  the  girls  who  listened. 

"  Will  you  allow  me  ? "  Betty  said,  and  the  group 
moved  on  a  few  steps,  and  she  planted  herself  before 
her  picture. 

She  had  thought  of  it,  dreamed  of  it,  worked  upon 


260  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

it  for  weeks,  but  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  had  never 
really  seen  it  before.  Those  deep  eyes  of  hers,  eager, 
and  filled  with  unwonted  light,  seemed  to  devour  each 
detail.  Had  he  been  pleased,  surprised,  disappointed, 
or  had  he,  perhaps,  seen  nothing  of  the  picture,  but 
only  herself  who  had  painted  it — the  woman  from 
whom  a  tragedy  divided  him  ? 

If  those  chattering  people  would  but  move  on,  and 
leave  her  in  peace !  She  felt  that  she  could  never  tire 
of  the  images  her  own  picture,  Harringay  standing 
before  it,  evoked. 

But  encouraged  by  the  laughter  of  the  girls,  the  tall 
young  man  with  the  turn  for  narrative  had  embarked 
on  another  story.  Betty  strove  not  to  listen,  yet  ever 
found  the  current  of  her  own  thought  disturbed  by 
the  recital,  fragments  of  which  floated,  in  spite  of  her- 
self upon  her  mental  consciousness.  It  was  a  ques- 
tion again  of  the  London  cabman  of  whom  in  his  sev- 
eral varieties  the  narrator  declared  himself  to  be  a 
careful  student.  He  was,  at  all  events,  a  most  ac- 
complished mimic,  the  girls  declared,  and  encouraged 
him  to  further  efforts,  as  he  now  bent  his  ear  to  the 
trapdoor  of  his  hansom,  listening  with  an  angry 
puzzlement  to  the  instructions  of  his  fare,  now  looked 
up  with  the  anxious  gaze  of  the  foreigner  inside,  re- 
peating in  his  broken  English, 

"  To  ze  Ompere — to  ze  Ompee-r-r-rl "  Then  break- 
ing in  desperation  into  his  native  tongue,  "  A  TEm- 
pire." 

"  Olympia,"  cried  the  young  man  in  the  person  of 
cabby,  and  demanded  why,  in  the  name  of  several 
wicked  things  which  had  to  be  omitted  in  the  pres- 
ence of  ladies,  his  fare  had  not  said  so  before  ? 

Betty  mentally  apostrophized  the  young  man  and 


THE   WALKER   CONVEKSAZIONA.  261 

his  admiring  friends  as  a  set  of  chattering  idiots,  but 
they  had  done  her  the  unconscious  service  of  forming 
a  barrier  between  her  as  she  stood  before  her  picture 
and  the  passing  crowd.  As  the  trapdoor  was  banged 
down  and  the  poor  Frenchman  was  driven  away  by  an 
exasperated  cabmen  in  the  direction  of  Addison  Road, 
someone  with  a  word  of  apology  made  his  way  through 
this  barrier  and  stood  beside  Betty  Jervois. 

Without  moving  her  eyes  in  his  direction  she  knew 
who  it  was.  She  was  ashamed  of  the  cowardice 
which  had  robbed  her  of  power  to  move  or  speak 
or  look  when  Harringay's  unmoved  voice  fell  on  her 
ear. 

"  You  did  not  expect  to  see  me  here ;  "  he  said, "  but 
I  made  sure  of  meeting  you." 

Then  she  turned  a  little,  and,  still  without  look- 
ing in  his  face,  gave  him  her  hand. 

"  I  congratulate  you  on  your  '  Hereward,' "  he  went 
on  in  his  usual,  level  voice,  "  I  agree  with  Professor 
Scott  that  it  shows  great  promise." 

And  without  more  ado  he  proceeded  to  talk  to  her 
about  the  picture,  praising  it,  censuring  it,  as  if  it 
were  a  work  in  which  he  had  only  the  critic's  interest. 

And  gradually  Betty's  courage  came  back  to  her 
and  her  power  of  self-control.  She  found  voice  to  op- 
pose his  arguments,  to  question  his  opinions,  even  to 
assert  her  own.  Soon  she  turned  her  eyes  from  the 
picture  upon  which  they  had  been  desperately  glued, 
and  looked  him  in  the  face.  His  own  gaze  met  hers 
fully  for  a  space  before  it  returned  to  the  "  Hereward." 
They  talked  on  upon  the  same  subject  still,  but  Betty 
talked  at  random  now,  and  only  with  her  lips.  Her 
mind  was  occupied  with  the  face,  which,  while  the 
faces  of  the  rest  of  the  world  had  passed  before  her 


262  THE  CEDAE  STAB. 

eyes  to  admire,  to  deride,  to  reject,  to  approve,  had  in 
some  mysterious  way  lived  within  her,  unquestioned, 
uncatalogued,  uncriticised,  from  her  childhood. 

The  fifteen  months  that  had  passed  since  she  had 
seen  it  last  had  dealt  not  too  kindly  with  the  counte- 
nance that  little  Betty  Jervois  had  so  innocently 
enshrined.  The  lines  about  mouth  and  eyes  had 
multiplied  and  were  deeper  cut ;  into  the  sweep  of 
black  hair  had  come  more  than  a  touch  of  grey ;  the 
always  swarthy  complexion  had  been  rendered  duskier 
by  the  sunlight  and  darkness  of  many  lands.  And 
over  all  was  the  unmistakable  air  of  sadness  and 
regret  that  comes  with  the  knowledge  of  life,  the 
knowledge  of  men  and  women,  that  is,  the  experi- 
ence of  the  wisdom  and  folly  of  the  world.  The 
passion  of  pursuit  and  the  wearisomeness  of  attain- 
ment ;  the  sadness  of  experience  and  its  composure, 
were  all  written  plain  for  who  liked  to  see  in  the  lines 
of  Harringay's  face. 

When  Harringay  had  delivered  himself  of  what 
had  to  be  said  on  the  disputed  subject  of  the  pose  of 
Betty's  "  Hereward  "  in  his  white  silk  shirt  passing 
on  horseback  under  the  window  beneath  Torfreda's 
eyes,  the  pair  moved  away  from  the  picture  and  found 
themselves  a  seat  in  the  Life  Room  where  the  band 
was  stationed.  On  their  way  they  passed  Johnson 
distressfully  searching  for  his  lost — mistress,  with 
Amy  Masters  in  tow.  His  mouth  fell  open  when  he 
saw  Betty  in  conversation  with  his  morning's  bete  noir, 
and  he  raised  his  ej'ebrows  in  pantomimic  interroga- 
tion. Did  she  want  to  be  rescued  ?  Was  she  being 
anno}red  ?  Could  he  do  an}rthing  the  arched  brows, 
the  eager  eyes  and  parted  lips  demanded.  Bett}T, 
listening  to  the  familiar,  gentle  voice  beside  her, 


THE  WALKER  CONVERSAZIONE.  263 

gazed  unseeing  in  the  poor  fellow's  face  and  passed 
on. 

a  I  called  on  you  this  afternoon  and  you  were  out," 
Harringay  said  as  they  seated  themselves  on  one  of 
the  crimson  settees  which  had  been  imported  into  the 
"  Life,"  and  Betty  let  the  remark  pass  without  com- 
ment. 

He  had  not  sought  to  lead  her  into  the  semi-privacy 
to  be  obtained  in  corridors  or  on  the  stairs,  his  man- 
ner was  simply  that  of  any  gentleman  talking  to  any 
lady  of  his  acquaintance  from  whom  he  had  been 
separated  by  ordinary  circumstances  for  a  period. 
Betty  noted  these  things  and  was  ashamed  of  that 
foolish  tumult  which  had  been  in  her  heart.  She  was 
disgusted  to  remember  that  the  vow  she  had  taken 
never  to  see  him  again  had  been  made  under  the  im- 
pression that  their  meeting  would  be  simply  the  pre- 
liminary to  the  establishment  between  them  of  rela- 
tions which  would  be  a  wrong  to  the  memory  of  his 
dead  wife.  This  impression  she  saw  at  once  had  arisen 
from  a  ridiculously  exaggerated  idea  of  the  strength 
of  the  man's  feeling  for  her — gauged,  fool  that  she  had 
been  ! — by  the  strength  of  her  own  for  him !  That 
she  had  been  so  mistaken  was  a  thing  for  which  to  be 
grateful.  Betty's  gratitude  was  about  as  deep  as  that 
of  other  women  in  like  cases,  and  showed  itself  in  a 
great  accession  of  cold  and  calm  of  manner,  in  a  lifted 
face  and  eyes  that  seemed  to  look  down  on  her  com- 
panion and  his  subject  whatever  it  might  be. 

Harringay  was  unmoved  if  he  noticed  the  change, 
and  his  even  tones  flowed  on.  He  told  her  a  little  of 
his  travels,  he  criticised,  but  listlessly,  with  nothing 
of  his  old  malice,  the  passing  throng,  he  gently 
anathematized  the  band.  He  questioned  her  as  to  her 


264  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

brother  Peter,  telling  her  that  he  had  at  one  time 
thought  of  going  to  the  Upper  Congo  where  the 
3Toung  man  was  temporarily  settled  to  give  him  a  look, 
but,  at  the  last  moment,  had  decided  to  come  to  Lon- 
don instead. 

"  Peter  has  sent  home  a  great  cargo  of  butterflies, 
and  horrid-looking  spiders,  and  huge  nameless  things 
which  I  am  to  get  for  him  and  to  sell,"  Betty  told 
him.  "  How  am  I  to  do  that,  I  wonder  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  I  could  help  you  if  you  would  allow  me." 
Then  he  repeated  his  first  remark,  "  I  called  on  you 
this  afternoon.  Did  you  know  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Betty  with  an  appearance  of  perfect 
calm. 

"  You  were,  unfortunately,  out." 

"  Yes,"  said  Betty  again. 

He  turned  to  look  at  her  then,  and  recognized  the 
fact  that  the  handsome  set  face  beside  him  was  not 
that  of  an  emotional  girl  to  change  color  for  the 
telling  of  the  harmless,  necessary  lie. 

"  But  I  suppose  you  are — sometimes — at  home 
when  your  friends  call  ?  " 

t;  Certainly." 

"  And  am  I  permitted  to  try  my  luck  again  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  you  would  tell  me  when  I  should  be  most 
likely  to  find  you  in." 

Betty  reflected.  Here  was  her  opportunity  to 
say  "  Never."  Yet,  where  was  the  necessity  now  to 
do  so? 

"  I  am  at  the  Walker  all  day,  of  course." 

"  All  Saturday  ?  " 

"  Not  all  Saturday.  We  generally  go  off  to  a  con- 
cert or  a  matinee  on  Saturday  afternoon." 


THE  WALKER   CONVERSAZIONE.  265 

"  To-morrow  is  Saturday.  Are  you  going  then  to 
a  matinee  or  a  concert  ?  " 

Betty  slowly  shook  her  head. 

"  I  may  come  then  ?  Thanks.  I  will  bring  the 
address  of  a  lady  who  will  undertake  Peter's  butter- 
flies for  you.  By  the  way,  how  is  it  you  did  not  go 
to  Paris  ?  I  heard  that  you  were  going  there.  You 
would  have  done  well  to  go." 

"  Mr.  Carlyon  wished  me  to  stay  in  London,1'  Betty 
said.  She  did  not  add  that  it  was  the  discovery  that 
Harringay  himself  had  started  in  the  first  instance 
for  Paris  which  had  influenced  her  own  destination. 

"  Is  Carlyon  well  ? "  he  asked,  his  smooth  tones 
grown  listless  and  weary, 

When  Betty  had  heard  from  him  that  morning  he 
had  been  quite  well,  she  told  him,  "  Caroline  and  her 
crew  are  living  with  him,"  she  added  and  he  did  not 
appear  surprised. 

"  Poor  Carlyon  must  always  be  the  victim,"  he 
said.  u  He  would  not  be  happy  else." 

"  He  is  the  best  man  who  ever  lived  on  earth ! " 
cried  Betty  with  sudden  warmth,  her  eyes  gleaming. 

Harringay  acquiesced  with  perfect  calm  :  "  I  re- 
member you  and  I  often  told  each  other  so."  he  said. 

Something  in  the  tone  startled  Betty  out  of  the 
moment's  lethargy.  It  recalled  to  her  how  he  and 
she  had  shown  their  appreciation  of  Carl}- on's  good- 
ness. The  whole  history  of  their  relations  with  each 
other  rushed  upon  her  with  its  ancient  force.  It  was 
impossible  that  they  two  should  sit  there,  side  by 
side,  in  black  silk  muslin  and  swallow-tail  coat,  listen- 
ing to  selections  from  Cavallaria  Rusticana  like  any 
ordinary  man  and  woman  between  whom  no  recollec- 
tion of  betrayed  affection,  of  faithless  friendship,  of 


266  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

wounded  love  lay  ;  no  persistent  ghost  of  a  drowned 
disfigured  face.  A  horror  of  herself,  that  she  could 
endure  his  neighborhood  so  calmty,  seized  on  Betty. 
She  got  up  abruptly  from  her  seat. 

"  There  are  some  people  who  have  been  looking  for 
me,"  she  said.  "  I  think  I  must  go  to  them  now.  I 
shall  see  you  again,  perhaps." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Harringay  gently  as  she  moved 
away. 

"  He  was  a  friend  of  yours,  then,  after  all  ?  "  John- 
son said,  jealously,  as  she  joined  him.  "  Why  couldn't 
he  have  come  forward  and  said  so,  then,  instead  of 
slinking  at  our  heels  ?  Andrews  has  been  telling  me 
about  him.  His  wife  was  drowned  under  his  eyes  a 
week  or  so  ago.  Did  you  know  that  ?  " 

"  I  knew  that,"  said  Betty. 

"  An  experience  that  might  have  kept  him  quiet 
for  a  time  one  would  think  1  Andrews  says  he  meant 
to  save  his  wife  and  grabbed  the  very  wrong  woman. 
An  awful  idea  !  By  heaven  !  If  that  had  happened 
to  me  I  should  have  had  about  as  much  as  I  wanted. 
I  shouldn't  have  come  grimacing  and  chattering  to  a 
pack  of  other  women,  wearj'ing  them  to  death  with 
my  3rarns !  You  look  about  worn  out,  Betty." 

"  Yes.  I  want  to  get  home.  No — you  can't  come 
with  me.  Get  me  a  hansom,  please." 

And  the  faithful  Johnson  obeying,  Betty  was 
whirled  away  from  the  gay  scene  of  the  Walker  Con- 
versazione. 


A    WOMAN'S  NO.  267 


CHAPTER  III. 
A  WOMAN'S  NO. 

THE  long  drawing-room  at  Stanfield  Gardens  was 
empty  save  for  the  presence  of  one  of  the  boarders, 
a  young  lady  with  a  red  inflamed  face,  and  watery 
eyes,  who,  wrapped  in  a  knitted  shawl  and  with  wool 
mittens  on  her  hands,  was  nursing  a  phenomenal  cold 
over  the  fire.  This  }roung  person,  on  the  appearance 
of  a  visitor,  lifted  her  face  from  her  pocket-handker- 
chief, inclined  her  heavy  head  in  response  to  the  new- 
comer's bow,  said,  "  Good  afterdood,"  and,  turning 
her  back  on  him  to  show  that  she  was  in  no  wise  in- 
terested in  his  presence,  dropped  her  face  again  in 
her  pocket-handkerchief. 

Harringay  took  up  his  position  at  the  window — 
there  were  three  of  them — farthest  from  the  fire,  and 
there  Betty  Jervois  presently  joined  him. 

He  had  brought  the  address  he  promised  her  ;  and 
their  talk  was  of  butterflies,  and  of  Peter's  letters 
from  the  Congo.  Probably  not  a  sentence  of  this 
simple  converse  penetrated  the  heavy  ears  of  the 
young  lady  with  the  cold,  but  both  felt  that  her  pres- 
ence was  more  restraint  than  the  presence  of  the 
crowd  last  night 

"  Is  this  all  the  privacy  you  can  command  ?  "  Har- 
ringay asked  presently,  looking  with  no  good- will  at 
the  muffled  back. 

And  Betty  replied  that  she  had  no  secrets  to  dis- 


268  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

cuss,  and  did  not  find  the  presence  of  a  third  person 
inconvenient. 

"  You  have  become  very  patient,"  Harringay  said. 
"  Come  outside." 

Betty  declined.     "  We  can  talk  here." 

"  We  cannot.  That,'*  with  a  glance  of  malice  at 
the  figure  by  the  hearth,  agitated  now  by  a  violent 
and  prolonged  fit  of  sneezing,  "  forbids.  Come  out." 

"No." 

"  Are  you  afraid  ?  "  he  asked  with  his  eyes  upon 
her.  "  You  did  not  use  to  be  afraid." 

She  might  have  made  answer  :  "  Of  you  I  was 
always  afraid,"  but  she  was  silent,  trying  to  overcome 
the  desire  to  do  as  he  asked,  to  resist  the  longing  to 
be  alone  with  him.  The  sick  girl  sank  back  in  her 
chair  with  a  gasp  and  a  sigh,  exhausted  by  her  sneez- 
ing bout.  Betty  walked  slowly  down  the  room  and 
went  on  her  knees  at  the  invalid's  side. 

"  Your  cold  seems  worse,  Nora,"  she  said.  "  Can 
I  do  anything  for  you  ?  Get  you  anything  ?  " 

Nora  muttered  and  spluttered  in  her  effort  to  reply, 
and  finally  got  out  that  if  Betty  would  go  to  the 
chebists  at  the  corder,  get  her  a  couple  of  oudces  of 
ipecacuadha  ad  borphia  lozedges  and  a  tid  of  bustard 
plaster  for  her  chest  she  thought  it  might  be  of  serv- 
ice to  her. 

"  All  right.  I  will  go  and  fetch  them,"  Betty  said. 
She  had  made  up  her  mind  not  to  go  out — nearly.  It 
was  wonderful  how  Fate  took  things  out  of  our  hands 
and  decided  them  for  us,  Betty  told  herself,  as  she 
rose  to  her  feet  and  crossed  the  room.  She  nodded  to 
Harringay  as  she  reached  the  door.  "  I  am  compelled 
to  go  out.  I  shall  be  ready  almost  directly,"  she 
said. 


A    WOMAN'S  NO.  269 

They  went  out  of  the  door,  and  down  the  three 
white  steps,  and  crossed  the  road  to  the  leafless  shade 
of  the  melancholy  planes  of  the  Gardens.  Round 
and  round  the  enclosure  they  walked,  and  for  long 
they  walked  without  talking.  It  was  Harringay  who 
broke  the  silence,  and  the  preliminary  to  speech  was 
a  heavy  sigh. 

'*  Betty,"  he  said,  "  I  am  going  out  to  Africa  in  a 
month.  I  was  there  a  dozen  years  ago  for  a  short 
time  and  the  fancy  has  taken  me  to  see  what  civil- 
ization has  done  for  the  places  I  knew  in  the  rough. 
I  shall  look  up  Peter,  perhaps.  Probably  I  shall 
settle  there  for  a  time.  In  any  case  it  is  unlikely  that 
I  come  back  to  England  for  years — perhaps  ever 
again." 

He  was  silent  and  she  listened  to  his  footsteps  as 
he  walked  beside  her. 

"  I  want  you  to  come  with  me,  Betty,"  he  said. 

She  half  stopped,  gave  a  quick  look  at  his  face, 
hurried  on  again  at  his  side  :  "  Oh  no !  "  she  said. 

"  Why  do  you  say  that,"  he  asked  her  gently,  "  yon 
do  not  mean  it.  Let  other  men  and  women  deal  in 
affectation  and  evasion,  you  and  I  should  not  be 
afraid  to  speak  our  minds  to  each  other.  We  have 
known  them  too  long." 

"  Yes,"  said  Betty  slowly,  u  That  is  just  it." 

"  I  have  not  unduly  hurried.  I  went  away  for  fif- 
teen months.  But  at  no  instant  of  that  time  have  I 
doubted  what  your  answer  would  be,  when  the  pro- 
prieties being  appeased — not  for  your  sake  or  mine, 
but  for  another's  to  whom  such  things  were  of  im- 
portance— I  came  to  you.  Why  do  you  say  '  oh 
no ? '" 

Betty  hurried  on,  her  breathing  quick  and  deep. 


270  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

She  was  for  the  moment  incapable  of  answering  him. 
Yet,  was  it  possible  he  did  not  see  the  inseparable 
objection  to  that  blessedness  of  which  he  spoke.  Was 
it  possible  it  could  be  of  no  importance  in  his  sight 
and  remain  insuperable  in  hers  ? 

He  turned  his  face  upon  her  and  smiled  a  little  as 
he  put  his  question  for  the  third  time  :  "  Why  do  you 
say  '  Oh,  no  ?  '" 

She  stopped  in  her  walk,  and  feeling  hurriedly  in 
her  jacket  pocket  brought  out  that  unmounted  speak- 
ing photograph  of  the  dead  woman.  When  she  had 
finished  dressing  and  was  on  her  way  down  to  him, 
she  had  run  back  to  her  room,  had  hurriedly  searched 
through  the  pages  of  her  Bible  and  secured  the 
picture.  It  was  to  serve  as  a  talisman  to  guard  her 
against  herself  and  against  him.  She  thrust  it  into 
his  hand ; 

"  Because  of  this,"  she  said. 

The  light  of  the  November  afternoon  had  grown  a 
little  uncertain,  although  the  dusk  was  not  yet  fall- 
ing. Harringay  knit  his  brows  and  peered  closely  at 
the  photograph,  then  pushed  it  back  into  the  envelope 
from  which  it  had  been  drawn  and  returned  it  to  her 
hand. 

"  My  late  wife.  Dead  for  fifteen  months,"  he 
said. 

"But  how  dead?"  Betty  asked  with  a  break  of  ex- 
citement in  her  voice.  "  It  was  through  us — you  and 
me — for  our  selfish  gratification  she  died.  And — all 
that  went  before.  She  was  good  to  me,  and  I — if  it 
had  not  been  for  me  she  would  have  been  alive  now. 
Every  day  of  my  life  since — every  clay — every  hour 
— I  have  wished  that  you  had  saved  her — that  it  was 
I  who  was  drowned." 


A    WOMAN'S  NO.  271 

"  This  is  morbid,"  he  said.  "  You  used  to  be 
peculiarly  healthy-minded — quite  sane.  What  is  it 
that  has  changed  you  so  ?  " 

"  Oh,  dear  God  I  "  she  said  breathing  the  words 
under  her  breath.  "  Have  we  not  had  enough  to 
change  us — you  and  I  ?  " 

He  caught  strongly  in  his  the  hand  that  hung  at 
her  side. 

"  Oh,  Betty  I  I  have  had  such  faith  in  you — can't 
you  spare  me  this  ?  "  he  asked. 

The  few  persons  in  that  quiet  place  were  on  the 
side  of  the  houses  ;  there  was  none  to  trouble  about 
the  man  and  woman  who  walked  by  the  tall  rails  of 
the  gardens  with  closely  locked  hands. 

"  I  don't  think  I  ought  to  spare  you — we  ought  not 
to  spare  ourselves.  Happiness  won  at  the  cost  of — 
her  life !  It  couldn't  be  happiness." 

"  Perhaps  not,"  he  said,  "  I  have  not  many  illusions 
on  the  subject  of  happiness.  It  is  not  happiness  I 
am  asking  you  to  give  me,  but  yourself." 

"But  you  and  I  are-  not  the  only  persons  to  be 
thought  of.  There  is  Bill." 

He  smiled  indulgently  as  he  looked  at  her. 

"  Is  there  still  Bill  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Well,  there  was 
always  Bill,  you  remember,  but  he  used  not  to  be  of 
much  account." 

"  Oh,  I  know — I  know  !  "  acquiesced  Betty  with  re- 
morse. 

"  And  you  see,"  he  went  on  with  a  swift  change  of 
tone,  "  you  belong  to  me.  If  you  were  tied  fifty 
times  over  to  Carlyon  I  should  not  hesitate  to  take 
you  away  from  him.  I  don't  doubt  my  right  to  do  so 
or  my  power.  Neither  do  you  doubt  it." 

"  I  thought  all  this  would  have  changed  you,"  she 


272  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

said.  "  Oh,  how  wicked  you  must  be  !  "  but  she  still 
clung  tightly  to  his  hand. 

"  Betty ! "  he  said  and  bent  closer  to  her  and 
dropped  his  voice  to  its  lowest  tone.  u  There  was  a 
time,  when  with  every  consideration  to  divide  us — 
and  the  laws  of  God  and  man — you  would  have  come 
to  me  if  I  had  but  lifted  my  finger.  Isn't  it  so  ?  " 

She  hung  her  head  and  seemed  to  catch  her  breath 
but  made  no  other  answer. 

"  You  have  called  me  wicked,"  he  whispered  on, 
"  but  at  anyrate  I  was  not  so  wicked  that  I  did  not 
consider  you  before  myself.  Do  you  suppose  that  for 
an  instant  anything  else  would  have  weighed  with  me 
then — what  the  world  said — what  others  claimed  of 
me  ?  But  I  knew  you  well.  And  I  knew  not  only 
what  you  would  dare  but  how  you  would  suffer — and 
I  refrained.  But  now — now  when  both  of  us  are  ab- 
solutely free — when  nothing  stands  between —  !  " 

She  gave  a  little  gasping  cry,  "  Oh  !  "  she  said,  "  is 
it  possible  you  don't  see  how  much  stands  between  ? 
You  are  right.  I  would  have  done  that — what  you 
say.  I  cared  for  nothing  in  comparison  with  you — 
nothing !  I  was  mad.  But  even  in  my  madness  I 
knew  it  was  I  who  should  have  to  pay.  But  for  this 
no  one  would  have  to  pay — no  one  but — "  her  voice 
sank  to  its  lowest  whisper — "  Violet." 

He  made  an  impatient  sound  and  dropped  her  hand. 
"  Which  fate  do  you  suppose  Tiolet  would  have 
chosen,"  he  asked  her  with  anger, "  the  one  you  would 
have  meted  out  to  her  or  the  one  which  befell  ? " 

They  had  reached,  for  the  third  time  in  their  walk, 
the  spot  which  was  opposite  number  7,  the  students' 
boarding-house,  and  here  they  came  to  a  stop.  No 
tears  were  in  Betty's  eyes,  but  she  shuddered  strongly 


A    WOMAN'S  NO.  273 

and  drew  her  breath  as  if  she  were  sobbing  in  a  tear- 
less agony. 

"  I  can't  make  you  understand — but  I  understand," 
she  said  brokenly.  "  I  see  how  impossible  it  is. 
She  is  the  victim — she  is  the  victim  !  I  will  not 
take  a  happiness  that  was  bought  by  her  life.  I  will 
not." 

She  turned  abruptly  from  him.  When  he  put  out 
his  hand  to  stop  her  she  eluded  his  grasp :  "  I 
will  not,"  she  repeated  with  a  sob.  "  Never  1  I  will 
not  1  "  and  so  slipped  away  from  him  across  the  road 
and  in  another  minute  had  disappeared  within  the 
house. 

Harringa}^  turned  quickly  on  his  heel  and  walked 
away.  But  gradually  his  pace  slackened,  he  stopped 
as  if  to  retrace  his  steps,  then  walked  slowly  on  again, 
pausing  often,  and  looking  back.  At  a  chemist's  shop 
which  marked  the  corner  made  by  an  intersecting 
street  he  waitopd  long,  entered  finally,  and  made  some 
purchases  there,  then  walking  briskly,  went  back  to 
number  seven  Stanfield  Gardens. 

To  his  inquiry  for  Miss  Jervois  he  was  told  that 
the  young  ladies  were  now  all  in  the  drawing-room 
taking  tea. 

He  declined  to  reenter  the  drawing-room.  "  Tell 
Miss  Jervois  I  will  not  detain  her  for  a  minute.  I  will 
step  in  here  and  await  her,"  he  said  as  the  servant 
pushed  open  a  door  through  which  a  faint  glimmer  of 
fire-light  came. 

It  was  the  dining-room  he  entered.  Harringay 
turned  his  back  upon  the  long  table  upon  which  the 
white  tablecloth  which  had  served  for  the  students' 
lunch  still  lingered  awaiting  the  students'  dinner,  and 
took  up  his  position  on  the  hearth-rug,  looking  down 
18 


274  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

upon  the  smouldering  fire.  The  large  room  with  its 
heavy  cornices  and  olive  green  walls  was  all  but  in 
darkness.  Harringay  idly  stirred  the  fire  with  his 
boot,  and  a  tiny  flame  upspringing  shone  fitfully  on 
the  long  table  surrounded  by  its  twenty  vacant  chairs, 
on  the  heavy  gold  frames  of  some  oil  paintings  upon 
the  walls,  on  Harringay's  own  dark  and  serious  face. 
It  might  have  revealed  to  him  had  he  turned  his  head 
the  figure  of  a  woman,  hatted  and  cloaked,  who,  stand- 
ing in  one  of  the  windows,  watched  him  with  eyes 
drowned  in  tears.  But  the  man  was  engrossed  with 
his  own  thoughts  and  did  not  trouble  himself  about 
his  surroundings. 

The  servant  came  back.  "  I  was  mistaken,  sir. 
Miss  Jervois  is  not  in  the  drawing-room.  I  do  not 
think  she  can  have  come  in  yet." 

"  I  am  in  no  hurry.  When  Miss  Jervois  returns 
will  you  tell  her  that  I  am  waiting  here." 

The  parlor-maid  departed.  The  man,  standing 
before  the  fire,  drooped  his  head  with  a  patient  air  of 
waiting. 

It  was  a  full  house  at  that  hour.  Now  and  again 
a  light  foot  was  heard  upon  the  stair;  now  and  again 
a  door  would  open,  and  a  girlish  voice,  raised  in  talk 
or  laughter,  would  fall  upon  the  ear.  At  such  times 
Harringay  would  lift  his  head,  a  look  of  alert  expecta- 
tion would  animate  his  figure,  his  eyes  would  turn 
eagerly  to  the  closed  door.  When  the  footsteps 
would  cease,  and  the  voices  die  away  he  turned  back 
again  to  the  fire  and  resumed  his  dogged  waiting.  In 
one  hand  he  held  those  little  parcels  he  had  bought  at 
the  chemist's,  the  other  clasped  the  high  marble  shelf 
of  the  mantelpiece.  He  uttered  no  sound  of  im- 
patience or  disappointment  or  weariness ;  but  in  the 


A    WOMAN'S  NO.  275 

pose  of  the  solitary  figure  shown  fitfulty  in  the  fire- 
light in  the  head,  now  lifted  in  expectation,  now  hang- 
ing in  patient  waiting,  in  the  tension  of  the  hand 
that  grasped  the  mantle-shelf  even,  there  was,  in 
the  eyes  of  the  one  who  looked  on,  an  eloquence  all  its 
own. 

Memory  is  full  of  caprice  and  renders  no  account  of 
her  selections.  The  time  came  in  the  life  of  Betty 
Jervois  when  of  all  her  recollections  of  the  man  she 
loved,  this  one  most  persistently  recurred  to  her  mind. 
A  picture  which  never  grew  indistinct  or  blurred,  no 
matter  how  fast  her  tears  fell  upon  it — the  picture  of 
Harringay  standing  in  the  firelit  dusk,  patiently  await- 
ing her  coming.  The  sorrow  she  had  hidden  there  to 
master  before  she  faced  the  other  inmates  of  the  house, 
rose,  climbing  in  her  throat.  She  could  no  longer 
strangle  noiselessly  the  struggling  grief.  At  the  least 
sound  from  her  he  swiftly  turned  his  head,  and  she 
came  slowly  forward. 

"  Have  you  been  there  all  along  ?  "  he  asked. 

He  flung  the  little  parcels  on  the  table.  "  You 
forgot  your  chemist's  order,"  he  said.  "  The  '  Ipeca- 
cuadha  '  is  there  and  the  '  bustard'  plaster." 

Then,  as  she  stood  beside  him,  with  the  flickering 
fire-light  on  her  tear-disfigured  face,  he  put  his  arm 
about  her  shoulders:  "It  is  no  good,  is  it,  Betty? '' 
he  said,  and  for  the  first  time  his  own  voice  grew  un- 
steady with  emotion. 

She  shook  her  head,  crying  silentl}'. 

"  Whatever  is,  was  meant  to  be.  If  we  suffered  the 
tortures  of  hell  we  couldn't  alter  what  has  already 
happened.  And,  as  long  as  you  are  mine  at  least,  and. 
I  am  yours,  I  am  content  if  the  consequence  is  dam- 
nation." 


276  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

They  stood  silent,  side  by  side,  before  the  fire,  he 
with  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder  that  was  farther  from 
him. 

"  I  knew  you'd  see  soon  enough  it  was  no  good 
fighting.  This  thing  is  too  strong  for  either  of  us, 
Betty." 

She  acquiesced  with  a  sobbing  sigh  and  a  bowed 
down  head. 

There  was  no  doubt  about  her  surrender,  yet  was 
there  no  sign  of  rapturous  triumph  on  his  part,  no 
delighted  yielding  to  it  on  hers.  It  was  the  betrothal 
of  two  hearts  that  passionately  loved,  yet  the  tears 
that  Betty  shed  were  not  those  of  joy  and  thankful- 
ness but  of  remorse  and  foreboding,  and  Harringay's 
face,  although  it  had  softened  into  tenderness,  was 
full  of  gloom. 

Presently  with  a  great  effort,  she  seemed  to  regain 
command  of  herself,  and  with  a  determined  gesture 
she  wiped  away  the  tears  that  kept  gathering  in  her 
eyes. 

"  This  is  the  last  time  I  shall  cry,"  she  said,  "  the 
very  last  1  I  don't  do  things  half-heartedly,  }^ou  will 
see.  I  mean  to  be  happy  with  my  whole  soul.  From 
this  time  forth  we  will  forget  everybody — every  thing 
— but  ourselves." 

Then  she  turned  her  face  and  kissed  the  hand  that 
held  her  shoulder.  "  Do  you  know  that  from  to-night 
there  is  no  one  in  all  the  world  but  just  you  and  me  ?  " 
she  asked  him  softly. 

At  the  touch  of  her  lips  he  clasped  her  closer,  and 
the  tender  gloom  of  his  face  broke  up,  and  it  was  a 
face  of  passionate  tenderness  in  which  he  compelled 
her  to  look. 

"  All  through  that  time  I  never  held  your  hand  in 


A    WOMAN'S  NO.  277 

mine,  I  never  touched  your  lips,"  he  said  with  fierce 
abruptness.  "  It  seems  to  me  that  I  should  have  my 
reward — yes,  it  seems  so  to  me  !  " 

"  And  you  will  be  ready  to  marry  me  in  three 
weeks'  time  ?  " 

"  Yes.     I  can  be  ready  when  you  like." 

"  I  should  like  to  start  in  the  Leopold  steamer 
which  leaves  on  the  30th  of  next  month.  That  will 
give  us  a  few  da}'s  to  ourselves  before  we  sail.  What 
do  you  say  ?  " 

"  As  you  like.     It  will  do  perfectly." 

"  But  you  are  not  to  be  indifferent.  I  only  want  to 
please  you.  Is  there  any  other  country  to  which  you 
would  like  to  go  ?  Do  you  prefer  to  stay  in  this  ? " 

"  All  countries  are  the  same  to  me,"  she  said. 
"  And  all  times — so  long  as  I  may  be  with  you." 

It  seemed  that  Betty  was  bent  on  proving  to  him 
that  she  was  not  indeed  one  to  do  things  by  halves. 


278  THE  CEDAR  STAE. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

"  SHE  GAVE  ME  HERSELF,  O  EARTH,  O  SKY  !  " 

BUT  after  all,  it  turned  out  that  the  marriage  could 
not  take  place  so  soon  as  had  been  intended.  The 
date  was  fixed  a  day  later  for  this  reason,  a  day  later 
for  that,  until  the  wedding  was  finally  arranged  for 
that  before  the  one  on  which  the  Leopold's  passengers 
must  be  aboard. 

"  I  suppose  you  will  write  and  tell  Carlyon  ? ''  Har- 
ringay  had  said  at  the  beginning  of  the  time.  And 
Betty  had  answered,  short  and  sharp,  that  she  should 
do  nothing  of  the  sort. 

It  was  a  subject  on  which  Harringay  was  comfort- 
ably indifferent  and  he  did  not  attempt  to  re-open  the 
question.  But  many  and  many  a  time  that  question 
presented  itself  to  Betty  and  ever  more  fiercely  and 
emphatically  she  answered,  "  No !  "  Until  there  re- 
mained only  three  days  to  that  finally  fixed  for  the 
marriage. 

Then  she  wrote  and  told  him  of  what  was  in  store 
for  her,  confessed  that  she  had  intended  to  keep  the 
step  a  secret  from  him  and,  with  her  tears  falling  like 
rain  upon  the  paper,  besought  him  to  forgive  her  for 
her  reticence  in  the  matter. 

"  Forgive  me,"  she  wrote,  "  for  this  last  sin  toward 
you,  and  for  all  my  other  sins.  No  one  but  you 
would  be  generous  enough  to  forgive,  but  to  your 
generosity  all  things  are  possible.  We  sail  for  Africa 
the  next  day.  It  is  more  than  possible  I  never  see 


"SHE  GAVE  ME  HERSELF.11  279 

you  again.  Don't  quite  forget  me — yet  try  to  forget 
me  as  the  unsatisfactory  Betty  of  this  later  time — 
the  Betty  who  has  been  so  unhappy  and  has  given  so 
much  trouble — and  remember  only  the  little  pinafored 
Betty  who  used  to  torment  you  at  Queen  Anne's  and 
be  made  furiously  jealous  if  Ian  or  Emily  was  allowed 
to  sit  upon  your  knee." 

It  was  on  the  day  before  her  marriage  that  she 
showed  the  answer  to  this  letter  to  her  future  hus- 
band. 

"  You  see  I  wrote  after  all,"  she  said. 

"  So  it  appears,"  he  answered  composedly,  and  gave 
Carlyon's  letter  back  into  her  hand,  unread. 

"  He  is  coming  up  to  be  present  at  our  marriage. 
He  deplores  the  hurry  and  privacy,  the  reason  for 
which,  he  says,  he  does  not  understand.  He  can't  be 
in  town  till  the  mail  to-night.  I  have  to  write  to  him 
at  the  Great  Eastern  Hotel  the  church  and  the  time. 
He  wishes  to  give  me  away." 

"  Isn't  that  rather  a  nuisance  ?  " 

"  It  is  kind  and  dear  and  sweet  of  him  ! " 

"  But  it  is  a  nuisance  all  the  same." 

"  You  are  a  mountain  of  insensibility ;  you  are  a 
huge,  incarnate  selfishness.  I  am  certain  if  I  ever 
could  put  you  away  from  myself  and  look  at  you  as  I 
do  at  other  people,  I  should  hate  the  sight  of  you. 
Can't  you  put  yourself  in  Bill's  place  for  one  minute  ?  " 

"  I  wouldn't  be  there  for  a  million !  " 

"  Can't  you  perceive — even  dimly — what  a  hideously 
painful  thing  this  will  be  for  him  ?  " 

"  I  am  lost  in  the  contemplation  of  what  a  hideously 
inconvenient  thing  it  will  be  for  us.  We  can't,  in 
.decency,  drive  away  from  ilxe  church  as  we  intended 


280  THE  CEDAR  STAR. 

• — no  one  in  the  world  having  the  right  to  say  us 
nay — we  can't,  in  decency,  do  that.  We  shall  have 
to  take  Bill  Carlyon  and  give  him  something  to  eat." 

Betty's  eyes,  in  which  there  was  at  times  the  glitter 
of  sunlit  seas,  flashed  upon  him  full  of  scorn  :  "  Eat! " 
she  said, u  Bill  Carlyon  eat  on  the  day  of  my  marriage 
to  you ! " 

Harringay  laughed  at  that,  and,  when  she  would 
have  turned  her  face  angrily  awa}7  from  him,  he  caught 
her  chin  in  his  hand  and  made  her  endure  the  admira- 
tion of  his  eyes. 

"  We  have  lost  the  combative  Betty,  somehow,  of 
late,"  he  said,  "  but  I  have  never  doubted  that  she 
would  reappear.  You  see,  my  most  precious,  there 
is  never  a  moment  of  life  so  exalted  and  sublime  that 
the  degraded  needs  of  our  own  fallen  nature  don't 
make  themselves  felt.  You  will  see  that  even  on  the 
day  of  our  marriage  we  shall  eat,  Betty.  I,  who  have 
won  you,  Carlyon  who  has  lost  you,  even  you — you 
used  to  have  a  healthy  kind  of  appetite,  dear — yon 
will  probably  be  as  hungry  as  a  hunter.  And — think 
of  it,  fierce  one ! — our  first  meal  together  spoilt  1  A 
feast  of  dead-sea  fruit — Carlyon  imported  into  the 
scheme  1  " 

All  such  lamentations,  however,  were  premature 
and  proved  themselves  to  be  quite  uncalled  for.  All 
the  communication  that  Carlyon  held  with  the  pair 
was  held  in  the  church  before  and  after  the  ceremony. 

Harringay  found  him  there  already  in  conversation 
with  the  clerg3rman  when  he  arrived.  He  was  struck 
as  if  he  saw  him  then  for  the  first  time  by  the  fine 
figure  of  a  man,  by  the  attraction  of  his  kind  and 
patient  face,  by  a  new  dignity  of  bearing  and  reserve 


"SHE  GAVE  ME  HERSELF."  281 

of  manner  which  had  come  to  William  Carlyon  through 
secret  sorrow  and  bitter  disappointment,  silently  and 
unselfishly  borne. 

His  grievance  about  the  presence  of  a  third  at  his 
wedding  feast,  if  the  grievance  had  indeed  been  genu- 
ine, died  out  of  Harringay's  mind,  and  the  thought 
of  what  a  blight  he  had  been  on  this  better  man's  life, 
hidden  and  put  out  of  sight  for  long,  rose  up  and  hit 
him  like  a  blow  from  a  forgotten  foe.  In  spite  of  him- 
self his  face  grew  pale,  his  narrow  grey  eyes  encoun- 
tering Carlyon 's  for  a  moment,  shot  away  from  the 
deliberate  gaze.  But  he  put  out  his  hand  and  said 
with  a  certain  humility  of  bearing,  as  becoming  as  it 
was  unaccustomed, 

"  I  have  to  thank  you  sincerely  for  coming.  It  will 
always  be  a  great  happiness  to  Betty  to  think  that 
you  were  here." 

Carlyon  did  not  respond  to  the  anxious  friendliness 
of  the  other's  tone. 

"  I  thought  it  better  that  at  least  one  of  her  old 
friends  should  be  near  her  at  such  a  time,"  was  all  he 
said. 

Then  he  turned  away  and  faced  the  big  door  at  the 
end  of  the  church  and  spoke  no  more. 

"  Here  she  is,"  he  said  at  length,  quietly. 

She  came  into  church  accompanied  by  Mrs.  Stone, 
the  proprietrix  of  the  Students'  Boarding-House,  who, 
at  the  last  moment,  had  volunteered  to  accompany 
her,  the  news  of  her  marriage  having  been  carefully 
withheld  from  all  the  other  inmates  of  number  seven. 
This  lady  seemed  to  repent  of  her  lately  assumed 
responsibility,  for  she  dropped  aside  into  a  pew  near 
the  door  and  Betty  came  on  alone. 

Betty  Jervois  was  too  highly  strung,  felt  too  deeply, 


282  TEE  CEDAE  STAB. 

to  look  her  best  at  important  crises  of  her  life.  She 
looked  very  far  from  her  best  on  her  wedding-day. 
Her  face  was  white,  her  eyes  troubled  and  heavy,  her 
hair  was  arranged  without  her  general  regard  for  the 
picturesque,  she  had  dressed  herself  in  her  every-day 
clothes  and  had  put  them  on  without  her  ordinary 
care.  She  looked  at  Carlyon  when  he  came  down  the 
aisle  to  meet  her  and  took  her  hand,  she  tried  to 
speak  to  him  but  could  not. 

"  Whatever  is  for  your  happiness  is  best  for  me,  my 
dear,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  the  imploring  appeal  of 
her  eyes. 

But  speech  on  his  side  seemed  difficult.  He  pressed 
the  hand  to  painfulness  he  held  within  his  arm.  "  I 
always  knew  that  this  must  be,"  he  whispered,  as  they 
neared  the  altar.  "  I  pray  God  to  bless  you  and  make 
you  content." 

It  was  as  Bett}7  had  said,  "  Kind  and  dear  and  sweet 
of  him  to  come,"  but  it  was  nevertheless  a  fact  that 
Carlyon's  presence  at  her  marriage,  oppressed  her 
heart  with  a  weight  of  old  memories,  remorse,  and 
sorrow  that  seemed  like  to  break  it.  It  was  only  me- 
chanically she  said  the  words  which  gave  her  to  the 
man  she  loved ;  her  thoughts  were  with  the  man 
whose  love  of  her  had  been  constant  through  her  life. 
These  later  days,  with  all  the  heart-burning  and  pas- 
sion of  gladness  and  of  woe,  seemed  to  roll  back  from 
her  like  a  lurid  unfamiliar  cloud,  and  she  was  back 
beneath  the  blue  skies  of  the  may-time  of  her  youth 
with  the  little  sisters,  with  Peter,  with  Violet — 
Violet,  alas! — and  the  long  figure  of  the  good-natured 
young  curate  was  the  central  figure  there! 

It  had  been  of  Bill  that  little  Ian  had  talked  on  her 


"SHE  GAVE  ME  HERSELF.1'  283 

deathbed.  "  If  I  am  married  for  forty  years  it  is  Bill 
that  I  shall  like  to  have  near  me  when  I  die,"  Betty 
said  to  herself. 

And  then  to  her  own  great  surprise — for  she  had 
not  even  noticed — back  in  the  region  of  the  past — how 
far  the  service  had  advanced — she  was  married. 

In  the  vestry  Carlyon  did  not  offer  to  kiss  the  bride, 
neither,  for  that  matter  did  her  husband,  who  had  his 
own  opinion  of  public  displaj^s  of  affection.  It  was, 
on  the  face  of  it,  a  most  unemotional  ceremony. 

"  They  are  dispiritingly  matter  of  fact,"  the  clergy- 
man said,  looking  after  the  trio  as  they  walked  away. 
"  A  marriage  of  expediency,  no  doubt,  and  nothing 
more." 

Harringay  was  commendably  pressing  in  his  invita- 
tion to  Carlyon  to  join  them  at  lunch,  but  he  was  not 
to  be  persuaded. 

"I  have  a  few  commissions  to  do  in  town,"  he  said, 
"  and  I  am  off  again  by  the  last  train  to-night.  I  have 
to  find  up  the  son  of  an  old  parishioner  of  mine  who 
seems  to  be  doing  badly.  I  shall  make  him  come  and 
have  some  dinner  with  me.  Altogether  I  shall  not 
have  much  time  on  my  hands." 

From  the  steps  of  the  church  he  watched  the  newly- 
married  pair  get  into  the  hired  carriage,  having 
grasped  their  hands  in  farewell,  having  given  utter- 
ance to  the  conventional  phrases,  sounding  much  the 
same  on  the  careless  lips  of  the  casual  acquaintance, 
or  coming  from  the  heart  that  would  gladly  give  itself 
to  have  them  realized.  Out  of  the  carriage  window 
looked  the  familiar  face  he  loved  with  that  expression 
matured  in  her  eyes  whose  beginnings  he  had  known 
in  her  days  of  childish  distress. 

Never — never — never  after  to-day  must  that  look — 


284  THE  CEDAR  STAR. 

any  look  in  Betty's  eyes — summon  him  to  her  side  1 
In  whatever  she  knew,  or  wrongs  she  suffered,  he  for 
the  future  would  have  no  right  to  interfere,  though 
he  would  give  his  life  to  defend  her,  his  would  not  be 
the  right  to  do  so  of  the  veriest  stranger  by  whose 
side  she  might  find  herself. 

Some  such  thought  as  this  flashed  through  his 
brain ;  and  at  the  same  instant  the  face  drew  him — as 
it  would  have  done,  in  spite  of  that  "  never — never — 
never !  "  across  the  world — to  her  side. 

"  Dear  Bill,"  she  said  brokenly,  "  I  want  to  say  be- 
fore I  go  that  I  thank  3-011  for  all." 

In  the  button-hole  of  his  great-coat  a  little  bunch 
of  violets  was  pinned.  He  drew  them  carefully  out 
and  laid  them  in  her  lap  ; 

"  I  gathered  them  for  you  yesterday,  and  they  are 
faded,"  he  said.  "  They  grew  in  the  garden  at  Queen 
Anne's ;  and  you  know  who  planted  them  there." 

Betty's  quivering  face  was  before  him  for  a  minute 
and  the  eyes  that  implored  him  to  understand.  Then, 
stepping  back,  he  raised  his  hat,  and  face  and  eyes 
were  whirled  away  from  his  sight  as  he  told  himself 
for  ever. 

It  was  impossible  that  the  day  of  their  marriage 
could  be  an  idle  one — they  were  too  near  the  hour  of 
departure  for  that.  After  the  lunch,  which  the  pres- 
ence of  no  third  party  was  destined  to  spoil,  they 
drove  down  to  the  docks  and  went  on  board  the 
steamer  to  inspect  their  cabin  to  make  sure  the  lug- 
gage had  all  arrived.  And  when  Betty  saw  the  bustle 
of  the  ship  and  felt  the  strangeness  of  it,  the  gloom 
which  had  hung  about  her  hitherto  fell  from  her  like 
a  dropped  cloak,  and  hope  sprang  up  in  her  heart,  full 


" SHE  GAVE  ME  HERSELF."  285 

grown  and  radiant  as  in  that  of  any  other  young  bride. 
Happiness  shone  in  her  eyes,  and  her  face  lit  as  two 
or  three  who  had  loved  it  felt  assured  no  other  face  in 
the  world  could  lighten. 

"  How  delightful  it  is  that  everything  will  be  so 
new  !  "  she  said  as  they  drove  westward  to  make  some 
purchases  which  had  been  forgotten.  "  I  am  eager  to 
be  off,  Ted,  to  put  everything  behind  us — that  is  what 
I  long  to  do — the  happy  as  well  as  the  unhappy. 
For,  when  once  it  is  over,  it  does  not  signify  much 
which  it  was.  Everything  that  is  past  is  sad.  There 
are  times  that  were  quite  delightful  in  passing  which 
I  dare  not  even  think  of  for  the  pain  of  it.  Is  that  so 
with  you  ?  " 

He  told  her  no,  that  he  was  not  of  the  army  of  self- 
tortures,  "  of  which  absurd  sect,  by  the  way,  I  begin 
to  think  you  the  most  distinguished  martyr,  Betty. 
But  I  don't  deny  there  are  a  few  things  in  my  life  I 
should  be  uncommonly  glad  to  forget.  It  is  just  the 
nasty  parts  that  stick  unfortunately." 

"  I  shall  help  you  to  forget,"  she  said  with  soft  con- 
fidence. 

He  sighed  with  a  feeling  she  had  not  expected, 
"  Yes.  You  have  helped  me  to  forget  a  great  deal," 
he  said. 

They  arranged,  at  her  suggestion,  to  go  out  for 
their  dinner:  "To  sit — just  you  and  me — with  a 
solemn  English  waiter — than  whom  I  know  no  person 
more  pompous  and  offensive  and  depressing — behind 
my  chair,  would  destroy  my  appetite  again  as  it  did 
at  lunch  and  you  would  again  be  cross,"  she  said. 
"  Let  us  go  where  other  people  are,  and  lights  and 
music.  Appetite  is  infectious  like  gaiety,  don't  you 
think  ?  And  I  long  to  be  gay  and  hungry  again.  I  am 


286  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

quite  happy,  you  understand,  but  I  do  feel  so  weighed 
down  with  the  solemnity  of  what  we  have  done." 

"  Little  Philistine  !  "  he  called  her.  "  The  glare  and 
racket  of  a  popular  restaurant  on  our  marriage  even- 
ing !  "  But  he  was  in  a  inood  to  den}r  her  nothing, 
and  had  a  certain  horror  of  the  solemnity  of  which  she 
had  spoken,  himself. 

Therefore  they  shared  their  first  dinner  amid  a 
scene  that,  unaccustomed  as  she  was  to  aught  more 
splendid  than  the  sombre  respectability  of  the  board- 
ing-house meal,  mounted  to  Betty's  brain  more  surely 
than  the  couple  of  glasses  of  champagne  she  drank. 
So,  with  her  ever  changing  face  and  eyes  that  were 
eloquent  of  every  passing  feeling,  she  surveyed  the 
scene  and  watched  the  groups  at  the  neighboring 
tables ;  and  Harringay,  never  pretending  the  interest 
he  could  not  feel,  watched  her. 

She  was  wearing  now  the  dress  which  had  been 
made  for  the  morning's  ceremony  but  which,  at  the 
last  minute,  she  had  discarded  in  favor  of  her  work-a- 
day  garment.  It  was  of  amethyst-colored  cloth  and 
suited  her  pale  complexion  well.  Her  firm  white 
throat  rose  like  the  tower  of  which  King  Solomon 
sang  from  the  broad  flat  band  of  velvet  lying  at  its 
base.  She  wore  no  ornament  save  a  small  amethyst 
brooch  which  had  been  among  her  mother's  jewelry, 
and  the  broad  wedding  ring  upon  her  long  white  hand. 

Harringay,  who  noticed  everything  about  her,  saw 
that  on  the  left  breast  where  the  amethyst  cloth  and 
velvet  fastened  Carlyon's  little  branch  of  violets, 
quite  faded  now,  was  pushed. 

"  Wasn't  I  right?  "  she  asked  him,  suddenly  bring- 
ing her  eyes  back  to  her  husband's  face.  "  Isn't  it 
more  delightful  to  be  together  in  a  crowd  and  to  be 


"SHE  GAVE  ME  HERSELF"  287 

independent  of  it  because  of  the  affinity  between  us 
than  to  be  together  because  there  is  no  one  else  in 
the  neighborhood  ?  Don't  you  feel  that  ?  " 

"  Certainly.  But  not  because  I  am  here."  Then 
he  explained  to  her,  as  he  knew  how  to  do,  convinc- 
ingly, and  without  waste  of  words  what  was  the  cause 
of  his  happiness  that  night. 

"  And  I  feel  that  too,"  she  said  softly,  "  only  the 
crowd  makes  me  feel  it  more  intensely." 

"  I  don't  think  I  quite  understood  what  a  country 
cousin  I  was  making  my  wife."  he  said.  "  It  would 
be  more  amusing  for  you  to  go  the  round  of  the  music 
halls,  perhaps,  than  to  study  the  new  civilization  of 
Central  Africa  ? " 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  laughed.  "  I  am  a  very  ele- 
mentary sort  of  person  myself.  I  expect  the  crude 
in  my  surroundings  will  appeal  to  me  with  force. 
You  don't  think  it  beneath  me  to  take  a  lively  interest 
in  my  kind,  surely  ?  Look  at  the  girl  at  this  next 
table,  for  instance.  Isn't  she  pretty  ?  Oh,  well,  you 
wouldn't  put  her  into  a  picture,  perhaps ;  a  little  too 
stumpy  in  the  figure  and  bumpy  in  the  forehead  to 
suit  the  critical  taste.  But  can't  you  see  the  intense 
happiness  shining  out  of  that  demure  face.  She  and 
her  father,  the  fat  man  with  the  bald  head,  came  up 
from  Norfolk,  yesterday,  and  are  going  back  the  day 
after  to-morrow,  and  they  have  seats  in  the  Upper 
Circle  at  the  '  Haymarket '  to-night.  The  young 
man  with  the  spectacles  and  the  dark  moustache  is  in 
love  with  her,  but  is  too  shy,  poor  fellow,  even  to 
address  her — " 

"  And  where  do  you  read  that  interesting  fact  ?  Is 
it  shining  out  of  the  side  of  his  head,  or  written  on 
his  bulging  shirt  front  ?  " 


288  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

"  Both.  It  is  to  be  seen,  too,  in  the  way  in  which 
he  passes  her  the  salt,  in  the  flicker  of  his  eyelid 
when  she  speaks.  Oh,  in  a  hundred  ways  1  " 

"  And  do  you  think  what  you  are  to  me  and  what  I 
am  to  you  is  equally  legible  to  the  rest  of  the  com- 
pany ?  Is  some  one  at  this  moment  saj-ing  '  That 
man  sitting  over  there — the  man  with  the  baked 
potato  skin  and  small  slits  for  eyes — ' " 

Betty  laughed  into  the  "  slits  for  eyes."  "  Go  on. 
What  of  '  the  baked  potato? '  " 

"  To  him,  we,  who  gibber  and  chatter,  and  eat 
around  don't  exist.  Nothing  exists — but  the  beauti- 
ful woman  who  sits  before  him.  There  is  no  world 
but  in  her  eyes — no  wisdom  but  in  the  foolish  utter- 
ance of  her  lips — no  history — no  hope — nothing — 
nothing !  Nothing  but  her  alone  !  Is  some  one  read- 
ing all  that  in  the  back  of  my  head,  do  you  think  ? " 

Of  ordinary  love-making  in  their  short  engagement 
there  had  been  little,  their  meetings  had  been  brief, 
and  generally  in  some  public  place,  and  there  had 
been  that  in  the  circumstances  of  their  case  too  serious 
for  the  admission  of  the  ordinary  caressings  and 
lover's  language  considered  appropriate  if  not  neces- 
sary to  the  occasion.  So  that  the  unsealing  of  her 
husband's  lips,  the  unveiling  of  his  eyes  was  an  event 
— and  a  disturbing  one  to  Betty. 

The  words  fell  softly  in  his  gentle,  whispering  voice, 
but  Betty's  eyes  dropped  from  his,  the  color  came 
faintly  into  her  cheeks,  and  Carlyon's  violets  rose  and 
fell  a  thought  quicker  on  her  breast. 

Harringay  pulled  out  his  watch  and  showed  it  to 
her.  "  It  is  time  for  us  to  be  getting  back,"  he  said. 

When  they  were  seated  in  the  hansom  which  was 


11  SHE  GAVE  ME  HERSELF."  289 

to  take  them  to  their  hotel,  Betty  leaned  forward  and 
looked  at  the  illuminated  entrance  to  the  place  they 
had  left. 

"  Good-bye,  dear  noisy,  vulgar,  glaring  place — if 
you  are  all  that,"  she  said.  "  You  have  given  me  a 
happy  hour." 

"  A  happy  two  hours  and  a  half  to  be  exact," 
Harringay  said.  "  By  the  wa}^  Betty,  while  you  were 
gone  to  put  on  your  cloak  I  had  nothing  better  to  do 
than  to  listen  to  the  conversation  going  on  at  the 
next  table.  I  was  thus  enabled  to  test  your  powers  as 
seer  and  thought-reader,  and  I  congratulate  you. 
The  people  who  came  up  from  Norfolk  last  night  and 
return  to-morrow  are  Germans.  The  young  girl 
beaming  with  demure  happiness  is  the  wife  of  the 
'  father,'  the  hero  with  the  quivering  eyelids  and  the 
expressive  way  of  handing  the  salt  is  her  uncle." 

Betty  laughed,  being  equally  content  that  things 
were  so. 

"  And  the  other  brilliant  person  who  had  a  peep 
into  your  mental  machinery.  Did  he,  too,  make 
mistakes  ?  " 

But  the  answer  to  this  inquiry  may  well  have  been 
lost  in  the  noise  of  the  traffic. 
19 


290  THE  CEDAR  STAR. 


CHAPTER  Y. 

AN   UNMOUNTED  PHOTOGRAPH. 

"  'ORRID  murder  in  Tott'n'm  Court  Road  I  Woman 
murdered  by  7er  'usban'.  'Idges  details,"  a  newspaper 
boy  shouted  from  the  pavement.  Betty  shuddered 
as  she  entered  the  door  of  the  hotel. 

"Ah,  how  horrid  !  "  she  said.     "  How  horrid  !  " 

"  What  is  horrid  ? "  her  husband  asked  her  as  he 
walked  at  her  side  up  the  wide,  crimson-carpeted 
stairs.  It  struck  him  that  her  face  was  very  pale 
beneath  the  glare  of  the  electric  light.  All  the  gaiety 
had  died  out  of  it.  It  might  almost  have  been  the 
ghost  of  the  face  into  which  he  had  looked  at  dinner. 
"  Tell  me  what  is  horrid,  my  precious." 

But  Betty  did  not  care  to  repeat  the  ugly  tale. 

Harringay  had  looked  for  letters  in  the  hall.  There 
had  been  only  one,  and  that  addressed  to  his  wife. 
He  gave  it  to  her  as  they  came  into  the  sitting-room, 
small,  lofty,  heavily  decorated,  and  sweet  with  the 
flowers  which  Harringay  had  ordered  to  grace  his 
marriage  day. 

Betty  glanced  at  the  thin,  characterless  handwrit- 
ing of  the  superscription  :  "  It  is  from  Mrs.  Stone," 
she  said.  "  Look !  Who  could  feel  it  anything  but  a 
weariness  and  a  waste  to  open  a  letter  in  such  a  writ- 
ing!" 

She  threw  it  unopened  upon  the  table,  and  went 
into  the  adjoining  bedroom  to  take  off  hat  and  cloak. 

It  was  not  for  man}'  minutes  that,  standing  by  the 


AN  UNMOUNTED  PHOTOGRAPH.  291 

fireplace,  he  watched  the  door  through  which  she  had 
gone.  She  was  laughing  ruefully  when  she  reap- 
peared. 

"  Look  1 ''  she  said.  "  I  don't  know  what  has  hap- 
pened to  me.  The  clasp  of  nvy  cloak  has  caught  in 
my  veil  and  refuses  to  come  undone.  My  veil  is  in- 
separably united  to  my  hat.  No  amount  of  tugging 
can  tear  my  hat  from  my  hair.  Unless  you  can  do 
something  for  me,  I  suppose  I  must  wear  all  three 
garments  to  my  grave." 

His  fingers,  at  once  delicate  and  strong,  were  not 
clumsy  at  that  sort  of  work.  It  seemed  that  they 
understood  the  affinity  of  Russian  net  with  ambushed 
bits  of  wire.  The  vagaries  of  hat  pins,  of  which 
nothing  but  the  naked  points  were  visible  to  the  eye, 
of  elastic  which  knotted  itself  freety  in  curling  deep 
red  hair. 

Betty,  with  an  exclamation  of  impatience,  sent  the 
hat  and  veil  flying  across  the  room  :  "  If  I  had  only 
others  unpacked,  I  would  throw  them  on  the  fire," 
she  said  to  Harringay,  now  busy  with  the  clasp  at  her 
throat. 

The  hook  of  the  clasp  had  become  bent  and  re- 
quired some  strength,  and  suddenly  his  fingers  began 
to  tremble  and  in  another  instant  he  had  abandoned 
his  efforts,  had  slipped  his  arms  beneath  the  heavy 
cloak,  and  was  holding  her  in  a  close  embrace. 

"  I  have  spent  certain  hours  of  my  life  since  I  have 
loved  you  as  nearly  in  hell  as  it  is  possible  for  a  man 
to  live  through.  This  is  to  compensate,"  he  said. 

"You  don't  repent  of  your  bargain,  Bett}1  ?  You 
aren't  afraid  ?  " 

"  Afraid  ? "  she  repeated  with  disdain.  "  Of  what 
should  I  be  afraid  ?  Certainly  not  of  the  future — 


292  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

with  you.  And  as  to  the  past,  have  we  not  agreed 
we  have  none — no  memories,  no  regrets — none  !  " 

And  while  she  said  it  she  heard  Bill  Caiiyon's 
broken  voice  saying,  "  Whatever  is  best  for  you  is 
best  for  me,  my  dear."  She  saw  the  look  of  strained 
attention  in  Violet's  eyes — the  look  she  had  worn  as 
the  boat  shot  down  the  river  in  the  evening  light,  and 
Harringay's  lips  now  and  then  dropped  a  word  that 
his  wife  could  not  hear ! 

Nay,  so  treacherous  a  servant  is  the  mind,  which 
instead  of  obeying  superior  orders  is  ever  tripping  off 
on  an  errand  of  its  own,  so  lightning  quick  is  thought, 
so  undying  is  memory,  it  seemed  to  Betty  that  in 
that  instant  in  which  she  foreswore  her  past  she  lived 
once  again  through  a  thousand  forgotten  scenes  in  her 
own  life.  Scenes  in  which  Bill,  gentle,  protecting, 
kind,  for  ever  walked :  where  was  always  Violet — 
Violet  the  happily  named,  the  ever  self-effacing, 
humble  and  sweet.  She  saw  herself  surrounded  by 
her  childhood's  court,  always  the  t}rrant  of  the  hour, 
always  bent  on  the  attaining  of  her  own  ends,  always 
ready  to  relinquish  them  directly  they  were  ceded  to 
her.  Fighting  with  Peter  or  Ian  or  Emily  for  some 
coveted  possession  which  once  hers  she  would  deliber- 
ately cast  from  her,  miserabty  lacking  in  her  own  per- 
son that  universal  indifference  which  allows  one  man 
to  enjoy  what  another  loses. 

"  No  past,  no  memories,  no  regrets !  "  she  said  with 
her  lips,  while  her  eyes  surveyed  such  scenes  as 
these. 

She  slipped  from  his  arms  and  soon  was  looking 
across  at  him,  the  table  between,  a  tall  and  queenly- 
looking  person  to-night,  in  her  long  fur-lined  cloak — 
a  far  more  costly  garment  than  had  ever  been  in  her 


AN  UNMOUNTED  PHOTOGRAPH.  293 

possession  before,  and  which  Harringay  had  bought 
her  that  afternoon. 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  told  him,  "  when  I  was  a  child 
my  idea  of  misery  was  that  Peter  should  die ;  of  hap- 
piness, that  you  should  love  me?  Only  let  your 
wishes  be  definite,  you  see,  and  you  get  what  }rou 
want.  Mine  were  always  well  explained.  You  were 
not  only  to  love  me,  but  you  were  to  love  no  one  else 
in  all  the  world.  I  have  got  my  wish,  haven't  I  ?  " 

"  We  will  see  about  it.  Come  here,  and  let  me  take 
off  your  cloak." 

She  shook  her  head  at  him  across  the  table.  "  I 
adore  you,"  she  said,  "  but  at  taking  off  ladies'  cloaks 
you  are  clumsy." 

As  he  crossed  the  room  to  her,  his  eyes  full  of  light, 
his  lips  parted,  she  bent  over  the  table  and  encircled 
with  her  arms  the  vase  of  flowers  which  stood  upon  it. 
"  They  couldn't  be  present  at  my  marriage,  but  they 
are  my  marriage  flowers  all  the  same,  and  I  love 
them,"  she  said  softly,  and  with  her  lips  she  touched 
a  white  rose  here,  and  there  a  waxen  tulip,  and  stirred 
the  lilies  of  the  valley  with  a  finger  tip. 

When  she  raised  herself  from  above  the  flowers  her 
hand  came  in  contact  with  the  letter  which  had  been 
thrown  upon  the  table. 

"  Poor  Mrs.  Stone  ! "  she  said,  picking  up  the  mis- 
sive. "  Let  us  see  what  thrilling  communication  you 
have  to  make.  I  owe  someone  sixpence  for  postage 
stamps,  I  expect,  or  a  toothbrush  has  been  found  be- 
hind the  washing-table,  or  a  pair  of  shoes  has  come 
home  from  the  mending." 

He  was  standing  slightly  behind  her,  with  his  arms 
about  her  beneath  the  heavy  cloak.  With  his  chin 
bent  upon  her  shoulder,  he  watched  her  open  the  letter. 


294  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

Under  the  flap  of  the  envelope  the  words  were 
scratched,  "  Found  by  Martha  in  the  pages  of  the 
Bible  you  gave  her  as  a  parting  gift."  Within  was 
nothing  but  an  unmounted  photograph. 

With  fingers  cruelly  shaking  Betty  pulled  it  forth. 
It  fluttered  to  the  table  and  lay  there — the  pictured 
face,  with  its  wistful,  listening  look,  smiling  up  into 
the  faces  of  the  pair  above  it. 

Harringay's  arms  fell  from  his  new  wife's  waist,  his 
face  grew  hard  as  stone.  For  a  minute  a  silence,  so 
crowded  with  terror,  remorse,  hatred,  that  it  might 
have  been  an  age  fell  upon  them.  Then  Betty  fell  on 
her  knees  and  bowed  her  head  upon  arms  folded  on 
the  table  and  wept. 

In  her  overstrung  condition,  the  incident  that  had 
happened  seemed  for  the  moment,  as  final  in  its  oper- 
ation as  if  the  dead  woman  herself  had  appeared  and 
with  relentless  arms  pushed  the  new  husband  and 
wife  apart. 

She  had  put  back  that  portrait  in  its  old  hiding- 
place,  but  she  had  been  horribly  conscious  of  its 
whereabouts  in  the  box  at  the  foot  of  her  bed.  To 
its  presence  there  was  to  be  credited  the  fact  that 
Yiolet  was  in  all  her  dreams,  and  haunted  always  her 
earliest  waking  thoughts.  When  that  morning,  she 
had  put  the  Bible,  the  picture  pressed  between  its 
leaves,  into  the  hands  of  the  Stanfield  Gardens  serv- 
ant she  had  thought  she  had  laid  that  ghost  for  ever. 
But  the  Bible  had  given  up  its  secret  as  surety  as  the 
river  had  yielded  up  its  dead. 

She  had  coveted  this  man's  love — the  love  that 
should  have  been  another  woman's.  She  had  her  de- 
sire— but  at  what  a  cost !  However  close  her  hus- 
band held  her  that  pale  shade  would  creep  between. 


AN  UNMOUNTED  PHOTOGRAPH.  295 

The  pathetic,  smiling  face,  the  wistful  accusing  eyes 
— even  on  her  marriage  night — even  now  in  the  dark- 
ness, made  by  her  shielding  arms  she  saw  it  with 
horrible  clearness,  growing  larger,  closer — ! 

She  threw  up  her  head  to  reassure  herself  with  a 
sight  of  the  handsome  photograph — and  it  was  gone 
from  the  table. 

She  looked  across  at  her  husband,  standing  with 
his  back  to  the  fire  : 

"  Where  is  it  ?  "  she  asked  him,  in  a  whisper  full  of 
awe. 

"  Burnt,"  he  answered  shortly,  "  I  burnt  it."  At 
that  she  looked  at  him  as  if  he  had  done  some  dread- 
ful thing. 

"Burnt  it?"  she  repeated  slowly.  "  Oh,  Ted! 
How  dared  you  do  that  ?  " 

"  How  dared  I  burn  a  photograph  ?  My  dear,  I 
have  burnt  hundreds  in  my  time." 

Her  face  was  pathetic  in  its  struggle  to  reconcile 
his  easy  fashion  of  adjusting  this  matter  with  the 
immensity  of  its  import  in  her  own  mind.  She  came 
slowly  nearer  to  him  and  sank  into  the  armchair  at 
his  side. 

"  Darling,  what  made  you  cry  ?  "  he  asked  her  with 
that  break  in  his  ordinarily  steady  voice  which  shook 
her  so. 

"  She  was  your  wife,"  she  said  faintly,  "  she  seemed 
to  come  between." 

Then  he  went  on  his  knees  beside  her  and  took  her 
in  her  arms:  "  You  are  my  wife — you — you,"  he  said. 
"  And  this  is  our  wedding  night — and  not  man  nor 
woman,  God  nor  devil  shall  come  between !  " 

His  passion  was  so  fierce  it  was  for  the  moment 


296  THE  CEDAR  STAR. 

convincing.  Then  the  uneasy  conscience  spoke  again, 
the  memories  that  would  not  be  laid  awoke. 

"  I  wish  you  had  not  burnt  that  picture,  dear,"  she 
said.  "  She  was  your  wife — and  she  loved  you  so — 
and  you — there  must  have  been  a  time  when  you — " 

He  held  her  closer,  mistaking  her,  thinking  it  was 
some  natural  jealous}^  of  the  dead  woman  she  felt. 

"  No,  no,"  he  said  hurriedly.  "  Never !  Good  God, 
you  knew  that,  did  you  not  ?  You  saw  us  together. 
Although  I  could  not  speak — you  knew — ?  " 

He  had  thought  that  he  knew  Betty  through  and 
through,  how  was  it  that  at  this  vital  moment  he  so 
fatally  mistook  her  ?  She  was  hungering  for  the  as- 
surance that  their  sin  against  his  wife  was  not  such  a 
great  sin  after  all ;  and  he  strove  to  comfort  her  by 
asserting  his  treachery. 

She  stirred  uneasily  in  his  arms,  then  lay  still. 

"  Did  Yiolet  also  know,  "  she  asked. 

"  Violet  never  understood  the  wisdom  of  silence — 
and  at  last  she  asked  me." 

"And  you?" 

"  I  would  as  soon  have  denied  the  God  that  made 
me.  I  told  her  it  was  true.  I  told  her  too  that  she 
might  trust  me  for  your  sake.  But  she  would  not. 
You  remember,  beloved,  she  would  not  let  us  be  to- 
gether on  that  last  night.  She  had  to  pay — she  had 
to  pay." 

Betty  lay  still  in  his  arms — too  numbed  with 
anguish  to  free  herself.  But  one  thing  more  was 
needed  to  complete  the  circle  of  intolerable  pain  :  she 
asked  for  it. 

"  Ted,"  she  said,  "  if  you  had  let  me  drown  could 
Violet  have  been  saved  ? " 

"  I  could  not  save  you  both,"  he  said, "  If  by  giving 


AN  UNMOUNTED  PHOTOGRAPH.  297 

my  own  life  I  could  bave  saved  you  both  I  swear  I 
would  have  done  it.  But  I  could  not ;  and  her  clutch 
hampered  me." 

"Yes?" 

He  had  loosed  his  bold  of  her  and  got  upon  his 
feet.  Overmastering  as  was  his  love  for  his  }'oung 
wife  he  could  not  clasp  her  in  his  arms  while  he  spoke 
of  the  other  woman's  death. 

"  Great  God !  Must  we  talk  of  these  things  to- 
night of  all  nights  in  the  year  !  "  he  said. 

"  Never — after  to-night,"  Betty  said  through  stiff 
lips.  "  Tell  me  now.  I  have  always  wanted  to 
know. 

"  She  had  gripped  my  shoulder  and  arm.  I  was 
holding  you  up — one  of  you  must  have  gone.  I  told 
her  to  let  go." 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  She  did." 

If  he  had  seen  her  face  he  never  would  have  told 
her,  but  he  was  looking  into  the  fire,  seeing  another 
face,  for  the  minute  ;  and  eyes  that  had  looked  de- 
spair into  his  before  they  sank  beneath  them  and  the 
great  river. 

Some  word  whose  import  he  did  not  catch  fell  from 
Betty's  lips.  Horror  was  frozen  in  her  eyes.  For  yet 
an  instant  he  was  forgetful  of  her,  claimed  by  the 
other  woman. 

"  There  was  something  heroic  in  what  she  did  for 
she  was  a  timid  woman,"  he  said,  looking  before  him, 
with  a  hard  set  face  and  gloomy  eyes.  "  She  cut  her- 
self off  from  hope,  deliberately,  of  her  own  free  will. 
Afterwards,  when  she  rose  again,  and  clung  to  me,  it 
was  mechanical,  simply,  by  no  conscious  action.  She 
never  knew  that  I  struck  her  off." 


298  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

There  came  a  sound  from  Betty  lying  in  her  chair, 
a  breaking  forth  of  some  of  the  load  upon  her  heart 
to  keep  it  from  bursting.  He  turned  swiftly  and 
looked  at  her,  and  knew  what  he  had  done. 

Their  eyes  met  for  a  long  minute  in  silence  ;  then  : 

"  How  horrible  !  "  Betty  breathed. 

Harringay  started  as  if  waking  from  a  dream  that 
had  held  him  :  "  It  was  horrible,"  he  said.  "  Do  you 
think  I  haven't,  in  every  moment  of  my  life  since,  re- 
alized the  horror?  It  had  to  be  done." 

She  got  up  slowly  from  her  chair,  and  dragging  her 
limbs  stiffly  as  if  she  was  not  sure  of  their  use,  stood 
before  him. 

"  Ted,"  she  said,  "  we  ought  not  to  have  been  mar- 
ried. It  is  a  sin." 

"  In  God's  name,  why  ?  " 

"  A  hideous  sin  !  " 

"  Tell  me  what  you  mean,"  he  said,  with  a  certain 
cold  fierceness  she  had  never  seen  in  him  before. 
"  Say  it  out,  once  and  for  all,  and  have  done  with 
it." 

She  was  pale  as  death  and  swayed  a  little  as  she 
stood,  and  for  a  time  she  did  not  speak.  At  length 
in  a  broken  whisper  she  got  out  the  words. 

"  I  am  selfish  and  wicked — but  I  am  not  a  monster. 
I  will  not  have  happiness — happiness — that  cost  so 
much." 

He  laughed  at  that,  not  a  sound  of  mirth  or  triumph 
at  all . 

"  It  seems  to  me  such  a  declaration  comes  rather  late 
in  the  day,"  he  said.  "  You  may  not  have  happiness 
— perhaps  I  do  not  quite  understand  what  that  term 
conveys  to  }TOU — but,  seeing  yon  were  married  to  me 
this  morning,  you  must,  you  see,  have  me." 


AN  UNMOUNTED  PHOTOGRAPH.  299 

She  waited  again  because  of  the  physical  difficulty 
of  getting  out  her  words. 

u  It  would  be  monstrous,"  she  said  at  length,"  I  am 
not  a  monster.  She  was  murdered — Violet — You 
murdered  her — Oh  !  " — 

She  ended  in  a  loud  irrepressible  cry  of  distress — 
she  could  not  have  told  in  that  moment  if  it  was 
mentally  or  phj'sically  she  suffered  so  horribly — and 
flung  up  her  hands  to  her  head. 

He  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  stifled  her  cry  with 
a  hand  upon  her  mouth.  "  Hush  !  "  he  said  authori- 
tatively, and  she  shook  in  his  arms  and  was  silent. 

"  It  has  been  a  long  and  trying  day  and  }rou  are 
overwrought,"  he  said.  "  It  is  because  you  are  over- 
tired you  see  things  in  such  distorted  fashion.  You 
are  tired,  darling." 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  her  hanging  head,  and  soft.ly 
coaxed  and  coaxed  the  thick  and  beautiful  hair,  then 
kissed  it  and  laid  his  face  upon  it. 

"  I  had  forgot,"  he  said  in  his  whispering,  gentlest 
voice,  "  I  had  forgotten  what  a  little  self-torturer  I 
had  taken  to  my  heart.  I  had  forgot  that  my  own 
burdens  I  have  been  always  strong  enough  to  bear 
alone,  and  that  no  lightest  past  should  be  laid  upon 
your  shoulders.  You  tempted  me  to  forget,  my  most 
precious  ?  you  have  always  made  me  forget  so  much. 
Dear,  let  me  see  your  face.  You  are  not  crying  ?  " 

She  gently  shook  her  head.  The  horror  that  was 
upon  her  was  too  deep  for  tears — for  any  expression. 
If  she  might  have  given  one  loud  soul-scaring 
scream  !  If  only  the  luxury  of  going  mad  might  be 
hers  1 

He  took  her  face  in  his  hands,  the  handsome  hands 
she  had  always  loved  and  admired,  the  hands  that  had 


300  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

struck  down  his  drowning  wife  when  she  had  clasped 
him. 

"  I  must  have  been  mad  to  have  distressed  you  so. 
Forget  about  it — let  it  be  as  if  it  had  not  been  spoken 
— and  forgive  me,  my  darling,"  he  said. 

She  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders,  steadying  her- 
self against  him,  for,  now  tbat  his  arms  were  removed 
from  her,  she  swayed  unsteadily  still.  She  looked 
long  in  his  face. 

"  I  forgive  you,  my  love,"  she  said.  "  It  is  I — I 
who  want  to  be  forgiven.  Now  let  me  go.  I  am 
very  tired,"  she  said. 

For  an  instant — one  instant  out  of  all  eternity — 
he  held  her  before  him  still,  then  with  his  last  passion- 
ate kiss  upon  her  mouth,  she  broke  away  from  him 
and  went  swiftly  but  unsteadily  from  the  room. 

The  sitting-room  and  bedroom  adjoined.  The  dress- 
ing-table stood  opposite  the  door.  As  Harringay 
closed  the  door  upon  his  wife's  back,  he  caught  sight 
in  the  looking-glass  of  Betty's  face  advancing  amid 
the  handsome  furniture  of  the  brilliantly-lighted 
room.  He  noticed  one  of  his  own  old  brown  portman- 
teaux, which  had  been  all  over  the  world  with  him, 
standing  upon  Betty's  brand  new  tin  box. 

Later,  when  he  entered  the  room,  the  looking-glass 
gave  back  no  reflection  save  his  own  alone.  He  had 
thought,  among  other  things,  but  now,  that  his  port- 
manteau would  be  heavy  for  her  to  drag  from  its 
place  in  order  to  get  at  her  own  luggage.  Neither 
had,  evidently  been  touched.  No  desert  could  have 
seemed  to  him  so  empty,  as  did  the  undisturbed  pro- 
priety of  that  overcrowded  space. 


AN  UNMOUNTED  PHOTOGRAPH.  301 

Harringay  was  troubled  with  no  torturing  suspense. 
In  the  first  flash  of  recognition,  that  the  place  which 
should  have  held  his  wife  was  empty,  he  knew  the  full 
extent  of  that  which  had  befallen  him.  Fate  had 
fooled  him.  His  wife  was  gone. 

He  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  motionless. 
The  possibility  of  what  had  occurred  had  not  so  much 
as  presented  itself  to  his  brain.  Yet  without  thought 
or  reasoning  or  mental  effort  of  any  kind — he  knew. 

He  looked  for  the  paper  laid  upon  the  dressing- 
table,  knowing  well  it  would  be  there.  It  was  pinned 
to  the  cloth  by  a  hat-pin,  a  fellow  to  that  one  he  had 
extracted  in  a  former  age  of  existence.  He  picked  it 
up  mechanically — the  very  words  he  seemed  to  know 
by  heart.  They  were  scrawled  on  the  back  of  the 
letter  in  which  he  had  written  down  for  her  the  hour 
of  the  morning's  marriage  service. 

"  We  can't  undo  the  horrible  thing  that  is  done — 
but  we  dare  not  profit  by  it,"  she  had  written  in  a 
hand  he  would  not  have  recognized  as  hers,  and  could 
not  read  but  that  the  words  seemed  to  be  written  in 
his  own  brain.  "  I  will  never  see  you  again,  and  I 
pray  God  I  may  be  always  as  heart-broken  as  I  am 
to-night." 

He  crumpled  the  note  in  his  hand  and  flung  it  upon 
the  little  fire  burning  cheerfully  in  the  grate.  Then 
he  took  his  hat  and  went  downstairs. 

It  was  a  perfectly  cool  and  self-possessed  man  who 
questioned  the  chamber-maid  waiting  on  the  land- 
ing. 

The  lady  had  gone  downstairs  half  an  hour  ago. 
She  was  wearing  a  long  fur  cloak  and  no  hat.  The 
hood  of  the  cloak  was  pulled  over  her  head.  The 
hall-porter  had  called  a  hansom  for  her.  On  being 


302  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

questioned,  it  was   found  he  had  not  heard  the  di- 
rection given. 

The  dark  gentleman  with  the  unmoved  face  had  a 
hansom  called  for  him  also.  In  it  he  rode  forth  into 
the  darkness  and  returned  no  more  to  the  Battenburg 
Hotel  that  night. 


"BILL,    YOU  MUST  TAKE  ME  HOME."         303 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"BILL,  YOU  MUST  TAKE  ME  HOME." 

THE  Reverend  William  Carlyon  had  fulfilled  all  the 
commissions  with  which  Caroline  had  entrusted  him. 
He  had  found  that  unsatisfactory  son  who  was  causing 
his  old  friend  and  parishioner,  Mrs.  Butcher,  so  much 
anxiety,  and  during  the  progress  of  lunch  to  which 
he  had  treated  that  impecunious  person  had  extracted 
promises  of  future  good  behavior,  sufficient  to  fill 
the  heart  of  the  poor  mother  at  Blow  Weston  with 
pride  and  thanksgiving  for  the  time  being.  He  had 
meant  to  keep  himself  occupied  until  the  last  minute, 
and  had  carefully  immersed  himself  in  a  rush  of  busi- 
ness which  had  given  no  time  for  thought. 

He  had  dined  in  public.  He  would  not  be  left  to 
his  own  thoughts — to  the  thought  of  Betty  dining 
alone  with  her  husband.  A  man  sitting  next  him 
appeared  to  have  very  strong  opinions  on  some  mat- 
ter. Carlyon  could  not  afterward  remember  on  what 
subject  they  argued.  In  company  with  this  same 
person  he  went  to  the  billiard  room,  and  even  at- 
tempted, himself,  to  play  a  game,  an  essay  over  which 
he  did  not  exactly  cover  himself  with  glory.  After 
this  short  exhibition  of  incapacity  he  became  simply 
an  on-looker. 

The  waiter  who  came  to  tell  him  that  the  down- 
train  was  due  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  found  him 
standing  with  his  back  against  the  wall,  his  hands  in 


304  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

his  trousers  pockets  and  a  gaze  that,  fixed  upon  the 
green  cloth  of  the  table  before  him,  saw  quite  other 
things.  The  kind  blue  eyes  that  were  lifted  at  the 
interruption  were  dull  and  blurred. 

But  he  thanked  the  waiter  in  his  friendly,  simple 
way,  and  having  fed  that  functionary  and  paid  his 
bill,  went  up  to  his  bedroom  to  collect  his  few  belong- 
ings. 

To  that  refuge  the  now  affectionate  waiter  obse- 
quiously pursued  him  with  a  respectful  tap  upon  his 
door. 

"A  lady  has  called  to  see  you,  sir." 

"  A  lady  ?  "  Carlyon  lifted  a  rough  head  from  the 
towel  with  which  he  was  vigorously  rubbing  his  face, 
"  Coine  in,  waiter.  A  lady?" 

"  She  said  it  was  hurgent,  and  she  hasked  me  to 
'and  you  this,  sir." 

The  clergyman  opened  the  scrap  of  folded  paper 
pushed  through  the  aperture  of  the  door  and  read, 
written  in  pencil  the  one  word  "  Betty." 

u  I  have  hasked  the  lady  into  a  sitting-room  which 
'appened  to  be  vacant,  next  door,  sir,"  the  waiter 
said. 

She  was  standing  only  just  within  the  door.  Bill 
had  scarcely  closed  it  behind  him  before  she  was  hold- 
ing him  with  two  shaking  hands  upon  his  breast? 
grasping  his  coat  lapels  to  steady  herself. 

"  Bill,  you  must  take  me  home  with  you,"  she  said. 
"  You  must  take  me  somewhere — hide  me — I  don't 
care  where.  I  don't  care  what  you  do  with  me — only 
don't  let  me  go  back  to  him.  Don't  let  me  see  him. 
I  love  him  so — I  love  him  so !  and  he — is  a  mur- 
derer.' 


CONCLUSION.  305 


CONCLUSION. 

BETTY  held  in  her  hand  a  letter,  written  closely  in 
a  cramped,  not  too  legible  hand,  on  flimsy  foreign 
paper — a  letter  which  had  come  that  morning  and  al- 
ready had  been  many  times  read. 

It  had  been  read  at  breakfast,  where  Caroline  at  the 
head  of  the  table,  having  given  one  glance  at  the 
envelope  and  at  Betty's  face,  had  sat  with  studiously 
averted  gaze  ;  where  the  children,  promoted  in  the 
holidays  to  share  their  elders'  morning  meal,  had 
squabbled  as  to  which  should  have  the  African  stamp  ; 
where  Bill  sat  withdrawn  with  his  coffee  cup  behind 
the  Times,  in  a  silence  which  got  upon  one's  nerves. 

It  had  been  read  again  and  again  in  the  privacy  of 
Betty's  own  bedroom  :  and  now,  as  the  heat  of  the 
August  day  began  to  decline  toward  evening,  she 
took  it  with  her  into  the  open  air  to  read  again. 

The  children  were  at  their  tea,  Caroline  had  been 
called  to  a  sick-bed  in  the  village,  the  rector  was  sit- 
ting in  the  library,  which  had  once  been  Betty's 
father's.  For  it  was  Friday,  the  day  still  conscien- 
tiously set  apart  for  the  composition  of  his  sermons. 

So  Betty,  free  from  all  fear  of  interruption,  carried 
her  letter  into  the  remotest  part  of  the  garden,  where 
a  long  grass  walk,  bordered  on  each  side  by  old  apple- 
trees  and  an  under-growth  of  nut-bushes,  separated 
the  flower  from  the  kitchen-garden.  It  was  here  in 
the  childish  days  that  the  cemetery  had  been  situated. 
This  had  been  the  scene  of  the  elaborate  funeral  pro- 
20 


306  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

cessions  which  had  attended  the  interment  of  each 
loved,  ill-fated  pet.  Here  all  the  stray  birds,  found 
dead  in  the  garden,  starved  by  the  winter  frosts, 
trapped  by  the  gardener,  rescued  from  the  claws  of 
the  cats,  had  been  given  a  last  resting  place.  Most 
of  the  little  graves  had  sunk  and  disappeared  by 
now  ;  yet  here  and  there  was  still  a  small  headstone 
— fashioned  by  the  ever  useful  curate.  Generally, 
these  of  the  more  lasting  kind.  And  one  quite  re- 
cently erected  was  there. 

Betty  had  found  it,  when  walking  here  beneath 
a  sullen  December  sky  and  dripping  branches,  in  the 
first  days  of  her  return.  A  white  stone  of  quite  am- 
bitious proportions,  on  which  a  mason's  chisel  had  cut 
the  name  of  Paul  the  cat. 

Betty  in  the  selfish  abstractions  of  her  sorrow  had 
not  even  noticed  that  the  animal  was  no  more.  Its 
decease,  truth  to  tell,  had  been  a  matter  of  rejoicing 
to  the  household.  Paul's  age  and  his  many  infirm- 
ities rendering  him  not  exactly  a  favorite  with  Caro- 
line and  the  children.  Paul,  with  an  abscess  in  his 
ear  and  rheumy  eyes,  and  an  unamiable  habit  of 
swearing,  spitting  and  scratching  with  equal  venom 
over  a  kick  or  caress,  would  have  had  a  rough  time 
of  it  but  for  Bill's  unfailing  protection. 

But  Paul,  was  happily  dead ;  and  on  his  memorial 
stone,  erected  by  his  patrons,  his  name,  fame  and  epi- 
taph were  recorded  in  three  words.  "  PAUL,  lAN'S 
KITTEN." 

It  was  that  legend,  chanced  upon  in  those  early 
days,  which,  unaccountably  appealing  to  her,  as  in 
certain  states  of  mind  such  small  things  will,  had  sud- 
denly loosed  the  fount  of  Betty's  frozen  tears,  cleared 
the  bewildered  brain,  stirred  the  numbed  heart  and 


CONCLUSION.  307 

given  the  girl  back  again — some  one  he  once  more 
knew  and  understood — not  the  strange,  indifferent, 
unapproachable  woman  who  had  frightened  him — to 
the  one  man  whose  sympathy  and  understanding  had 
been  the  mainstay  of  her  life. 

She  paused  by  the  little  stone  now  for  a  minute, 
even  with  the  letter  in  her  hand  :  "  Dear  Ian  !  "  she 
said—"  Dear  Bill  1  " 

Then  she  drew  out  the  letter  and  read  it  once  more. 
She  read  it  as  we  read  the  letters  of  those  we  love,  not 
hurrying  over,  or  slighting  any  part ;  but  over  a 
word  or  a  phrase  here  and  there  she  paused,  read- 
ing it  again  and  again,  her  lips  repeating  it  linger- 

ingly. 

"  Have  I  not  been  sufficiently  punished?"  she  read. 
"  Are  you  satisfied  with  the  severity  of  your  self- 
torture  ?  I  think  I  know  you  well  enough  to  know 
you  have  relented  long  ago.  Write  and  say  so,  and  I 
come  at  once. 

"  If  you  want  me  to  acknowledge  the  justice  of  my 
punishment  I  do  not,  nor  ever  will.  It  was  too 
hideously  cruel.  If  I  had  sinned  past  the  forgiveness 
of  God  you  should  have  forgiven  me,  Bett}^.  Do  you 
think,  for  one  instant  that  I  repent.  If  the  thing 
were  to  be  done  again  a  thousand  times  over  I  would 
do  it.  I  have  been  sick  and  mad  and  sad  enough — I 
have  never  wished  that  I  had  done  otherwise.  It  was 
a  cursed  fate,  I  grant  you — but  what  man,  feeling 
what  I  felt  would  not  have  done  the  same  ?  I  repent 
that  I  told  you — I  curse  myself  hourly  for  that  folly. 
The  thing  was  so  familiar  to  my  own  mind  and  I 
thought  you  knew — or  guessed. 

"  I  have  taught  myself  to  think  it  is  you  who  could 
never  be  forgiven.  I  have  taught  myself  to  hate  you. 


308  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

I  thought  I  taught  myself.  I  said  if  you  came  to  me 
on  your  knees  and  implored  me  to  pardon  what  you 
had  done  I  would  not.  I  said  I  would  die  of  pain 
before  I  sought  you.  But  I  knew  it  was  play- 
acting all  the  time ;  I  knew  in  the  end  I  should  be 
where  I  am  now,  grovelling  at  your  feet,  begging  for 
mercy. 

"  It  is  the  loneliness  which  has  got  hold  of  me  and 
shaken  me,  and  which  makes  me  write  like  this.  You 
never  heard  me  whine  before,  Betty. 

"  Even  Bill  in  his  righteousness — I  am  not  mocking 
— he  is  a  good  fellow — he  would  have  done  as  I  did. 
Ask  him.  He  is  a  good  fellow.  I  never  distrusted 
him — never.  The  devil  said  to  me  '  you  took  away 
a  wife  of  his — he  has  his  revenge.'  I  didn't  listen — I 
hardly  listened.  I  followed  yon  to  his  hotel  that 
night  and  learned  that  he  and  you  had  left  together. 
I  never  doubted  either  of  you.  I  swear  it. 

"  Ask  him  now  what  you  should  do.  I  am  not 
afraid.  Ask  him.  He  will  tell  you  to  write  me  the 
word  I  long  to  get. 

"  She  was  hindering  me  from  saving  the  woman  I 
loved  with  all  my  soul.  You  didn't  think  of  that 
when  j-ou  left  me  in  that  horrible  way. 

"  I  am  with  Peter  now.  We  sometimes  jaw  about 
old  times,  but  he  is  a  silent  fellow,  and  oftener  we  sit 
for  hours  and  days  and  do  not  speak.  His  thoughts 
are  with  his  insects,  I  expect.  Mine  are  with  you  and 
the  Hell  you  and  I  together  have  made  of  our  lives, 
first  and  last. 

"  I  told  Peter  about  it.  It  was  when  I  was  bad  with 
the  fever  the  other  day — I  am  as  nearly  right  as  pos- 
sible now — and  I  told  him  before  I  knew  what  I  was 
doing.  Peter  did  not  beat  about  the  bush.  '  Betty  is 


CONCLUSION.  309 

a  fool,'  he  said.  '  She  was  always  a  fool — but  there 
was  never  anyone  like  her.  Write  and  tell  her  to  stop 
being  an  ass  and  to  come  out  here.' 

"  But  the  place  is  not  fit  for  you,  my  precious  wife. 
Write  me  the  one  word,  and  I  will  fetch  you  and  we 
will  go — 

"  Oh,  what  does  it  matter  where  we  go,  Betty,  if  I 
am  with  you  and  you  with  me  once  more  I  " 

When  Betty  had  finished  again  the  reading  of  that 
letter  she  folded  it  away  and  drew  from  her  pocket  the 
answer  she  had  already  written.  She  read  it  over 
with  a  dissatisfied  frown — a  long  letter,  filled  with 
details  of  what  she  had  suffered  and  done  and  thought. 
Of  how  she  had  longed  and  prayed  to  die  but  could 
not  even  fall  ill.  Of  how  Bill  had  been  her  support 
and  comfort  without  whom  she  must  have  gone  mad. 
Of  how  he  had  been  on  Harringay's  side,  always,  as 
her  own  heart  had  been,  pointing  out  that,  however 
opinions  might  differ  as  to  Harringay's  opinion  in  the 
matter,  she  being  his  wife  and  not  his  judge  had  a 
clear  duty. 

"  Duty,  I'm  afraid,  has  not  had  and  never  will  have 
anything  to  do  with  me,"  she  wrote.  "  It  was  feeling, 
not  duty  that  sent  me  away  from  you  that  night ;  it  is 
that  only  which  keeps  me  away  from  you  now,  and 
the  knowledge  that  with  this  dreadful  tragedy  coming 
between  we  never  could  be  happy.  And  yet,  it  is  not 
that,  it  is  the  knowledge  that  we  should  be  happy  in 
spite  of  everything,  and  that  our  happiness  would  be 
the  one  wrong  more  done  to  her. 

"  Yet,  since  you  want  me  still,  come  to  me.  Come 
— for  my  own  need  of  you  is  too  great. 

"  '  Where  shall  we  go? '  you  say,  and  I  echo  your 


310  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

answer.  What  does  it  matter  unless  we  can  find  a 
new  world  where  old  things  are  forgotten,  old  wrongs 
righted,  old  sins  blotted  out.  A  world  where  I  might 
live  again  the  days  when  I  loved  you  with  all  my 
childish  soul  and  knew  no  harm. 

"  Do  you  remember  lan's  Cedar  Star,  Ted?  That 
little  heaven  we  made  to  suit  our  own  needs — where 
all  the  pets  were,  and  the  flowers,  and  the  happy  days  ? 
In  the  Cedar  Star  every  memory  was  effaced  save 
those  we  loved  to  dwell  on  ? 

"  We  will  go  where  you  like,  my  husband,  and 
happy  or  miserable,  we  will  at  least  be  together.  But 
only  in  the  Cedar  Star  shall  we  ever  find  forgetfulness 
and  peace." 

She  read  thus  far  in  what  she  had  written,  then 
deliberately  tore  the  letter  across  and  across. 

u  He  asks  for  bread,"  she  said,  "  And  I  give  him  a 
stone.  Could  he  have  done  that  thing  and  not  suf- 
fered horribly  ?  I  saw  it  and  did  not  know  it  in  his 
whitened  hair  and  the  lines  cut  in  his  face.  Am  I, 
Betty  Jervois,  the  woman  to  be  for  ever  casting  a 
man's  sin  in  his  teeth — a  sin  in  which  mine  was  the 
biggest  share  ?  Because  I  punished  myself  as  well  I 
thought  my  judgment  a  fine  one.  I  see  it  was  a  sin 
the  more.  I  will  ask  him  for  his  forgiveness — I  will 
ask  so  that  he  does  not  know  how  to  refuse.  When 
he  asks  for  me — my  life — I  will  not  send  him  cold 
arguments  such  as  these. 

"  I  will  wrap  him  round  in  love.  He  shall  shelter 
safe  with  me  from  all  the  grief  and  remorse  that  have 
made  a  torment  of  his  mind.  What  matter  if,  when 
I  wake  up  at  his  side,  her  face  always  come  before  my 
eyes  if  his  eyes  do  not  see?  What  if  I  shudder  at 
that  dear  hand  of  his,  knowing  the  cruel  stroke  it  had 


CONCLUSION.  311 

wrought,  so  that  the  shudder  be  inward  ?  What  if  I 
live  among  torturing  memories  that  will  not  die,  so 
that  forgetfulness  come  to  him. 

"  He  asks  me  for  a  word — he  shall  have  it — not  a 
sermon  !  " 

She  threw  the  fragments  of  her  letter  among  the 
nut-bushes — the  pieces  fluttered  slowly  through  the 
branches  to  rest  upon  the  little  half-obliterated  graves 
— and  with  a  quick  step,  a  lifted  head,  a  light  in  her 
eyes  that  had  not  been  there  for  many  a  long  day,  she 
turned  toward  the  house. 

Mr.  Goggs,  the  owner  of  the  Crabberton  grocery 
stores  and  manager  of  the  post  and  telegraph  office 
for  that  parish,  had  been  regaled  in  the  rectory  kitchen 
with  a  mug  of  beer.  He  had  remounted  his  noisy 
cart  and  rattled  slowly  away  from  the  back  door  as 
Betty  passed  it  on  her  way  to  the  library  window. 
Two  of  the  rectory  servants,  standing  at  the  door  to 
witness  his  departure,  looked  after  Betty  as  she 
passed,  whispering  together,  with  something  of  awe 
upon  their  faces. 

Betty  remembered  all  her  life  afterwards  what  a 
hush  had  lain  upon  all  nature  in  that  hour,  how  silent 
everything  had  seemed,  how  the  clatter  of  the  depart- 
ing cart  had  seemed  to  emphasize  the  quiet. 

She  looked  through  the  library  window  at  Bill,  sit- 
ting before  the  study  table,  his  e}'es  not  upon  the 
paper  before  him,  as  she  noticed,  but  seeming  to  look 
before  him  with  an  intentness  and  in  an  absolute  still- 
ness that  was  unnatural  and  portentous.  He  had  not 
heard  her  footsteps  as  she  had  come  quickl}-  over  the 
grass. 

"  Bill,"  she  called,  and  her  yoice.  was   eager  and. 


312  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

strong  and  full  of  tone  as  be  had  not  heard  it  for  long, 
"  Bill ! " 

He  got  upon  his  feet,  but  very  slowly,  and  he  did 
not  at  once  turn  to  her. 

"  I  have  heard  from — my  husband." 

She  paused  over  the  strangeness  of  that  last  word, 
for  no  mortal  had  heard  her  call  Harriugay  by  that 
name  before. 

"  He  asks  me  if  he  may  come  over  to  fetch  me.  He 
asks  me  to  write  him  a  word  in  reply.  I  shall  not 
write,  I  shall  send  a  telegram.  I  shall  put  only  one 
word,  '  Come.'  Will  you  see  to  that  for  me  at  once, 
Bill  ? " 

He  turned  round  stiflty  then,  and  she  saw  his  face, 
the  white,  painfully  composed  face  of  disaster.  In 
his  fingers  a  flimsy  paper  fluttered. 

She  had  stepped  into  the  room,  but  at  sight  of  him 
she  drew  back  against  the  window.  Carlyon  went 
toward  her ;  but  in  that  moment,  to  save  her  life  and 
his  own,  it  seemed  to  him,  he  could  not  speak. 

"  Is  that  a  telegram  ?  "  she  asked  him. 

He  bent  his  head,  the  hauntingly  solemn  eyes  of 
the  one  who  has  to  tell  ill  news  upon  her  suddenly 
stricken  face. 

"  From  Africa  ?  " 

He  could  only  make  a  motion  of  acquiescence. 

"  Someone  is  dead  ?  " 

His  head  fell  lower. 

"  Is  it  my  husband  or  my  brother  ? " 

"  It  is  Ted  Harringay,"  he  said,  the  power  of  speech 
coming  to  him  at  last. 

He  was  not  afraid  of  suffering,  having  known  what 
it  was  to  suffer.  He  knew  what  a  salve  to  eyes  dry 


CONCLUSION.  313 

with  misery,  what  a  balm  to  the  rebellious,  fevered 
heart  are  the  silence  and  the  peacefulness  of  the  quiet 
night.  How  a  man  grows  ashamed  to  boast  his  pri- 
vate trumpery  sorrow  looking  up  at  the  stars,  solemn 
with  the  knowledge  of  the  sorrow  of  a  world.  How 
submission  to  the  brief  day's  heart-break  comes  in  the 
contemplation  of  the  eternal.  How,  not  only  the  new 
burden  of  despair  falls  from  a  man's  shoulders  but 
that  old  weary  weight  of  worldliness  which  is  one 
with  the  flesh,  and  he  gazes  disembodied,  as  it  were, 
made  one  with  the  night,  and  with  the  peace  of  God. 

When  the  weary  light  of  that  summer  day  had 
quite  departed,  he  went  slowly  upstairs,  and  knocked 
at  Betty's  bedroom  door,  and  called  her  name. 

She  went  to  him  at  once. 

"  I  am  not  ill,"  she  said.  "  Did  37ou  think  I  should 
be  ill  ?  God  is  not  so  merciful  as  that." 

"  Come  into  the  garden,"  he  said.  "  I  won't  bother 
you.  You  shall  not  speak  unless  you  like — but  come 
out." 

She  took  him  at  his  word,  and  chose  to  be  silent. 
But  now  and  again  as  he  walked  beside  her  in  the 
soft  darkness,  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  back,  he 
spoke. 

"  It  is  less  suffocating  out  of  doors,"  he  said.  "  One 
can  be  veiy  happy  within  four  walls.  It  is  possible 
to  feel  that  they  are  as  full  as  they  can  hold  with  hap- 
piness, and  yet  to  breathe  within  them.  But  in  a 
great  sorrow  one  wants  the  illimitable  around  one. 
One  wants  only  heaven  over  head." 

Betty  made  no  response.  Her  eyes,  dry  and  burn- 
ing for  want  of  tears,  looked  into  the  surrounding 
darkness,  seeing  ghosts. 

She  saw  her  husband  dying,  fever-parched,  with 


314  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

scant  necessaries,  and  only  Peter  to  attend  him. 
Dying,  haunted  by  dreams  of  a  wasted  life,  by  the 
memory  of  treachery  repaying  one  who  had  loved 
him,  heart-broken  because  the  woman,  in  whom  he 
had  placed  the  trust  another  man  would  have  put  only 
in  Heaven,  had  failed  him.  She  saw  the  bod}'  she  so 
loved  given  into  unloving,  alien  hands,  pushed,  coffin- 
less,  at  sundown  into  the  ground.  She  saw  the  dust 
fall  upon  the  face  that  had  been  as  no  other  face  to 
her — dust  in  the  eyes  she  loved.  She  saw  the  dark 
forms  of  noisome  beasts  drawing  near. 

Then  Ted  Harringay  was  coming  down  the  garden- 
path,  smiling  to  meet  her — the  smile  in  his  eyes  and 
twisting  one  corner  of  his  thin  lips.  He  was  sitting 
in  the  deck  chair  beneath  the  cedar  tree  on  the  lawn, 
herself  a  red-haired,  happy  child  adoring  at  his  feet. 

Not  for  her  the  haunting  smile  now  but  for  the  girl 
coming  slowly  across  the  grass  to  him,  shy  reluctance 
in  her  feet,  and  eager  longing  in  the  rose-white  of  the 
innocent  face.  Violet ! 

A  moan  burst  from  Betty's  lips,  whether  for  the 
later  vision  or  for  that  of  the  lonety,  soon  to  be  de- 
serted grave,  she  could  not  have  told. 

"  Dares  any  man  stand  out  on  such  a  night  as  this 
and  dispute  the  existence  of  another  world?"  the 
rector  said,  "  of  a  life  where  other  chances  are  given 
us — greater  wisdom — a  purer  sight  ?  The  night  is 
black  around  us,  Bett}r,  but  look  up,  dear,  look  into 
it,  do  not  be  afraid — and  there  are  the  stars." 

But  Betty  would  not  look  up. 

"  And  if  we  do  believe  in  another  life,"  Cartyon 
went  on  in  that  low  half-ashamed  tone  which  alone 
was  his  to  command  when  it  seemed  to  him  his  duty 
to  assert  that  position  of  teacher  he  so  humbly  filled, 


CONCLUSION.  315 

"  how  can  we  fret  and  fume  and  make  such  ado  ?  If 
things  that  seem  all  tangled  and  awry  are  going  to 
be  put  straight,  and  misunderstandings  made  plain ; 
if  there  are  to  be  happy  meetings  and  blest  companion- 
ship, what  does  a  little  lingering  on  the  road  matter, 
Betty ;  a  rough  place  here  and  there,  a  solitariness 
which  is  to  be  so  fleeting." 

And  Betty  only  set  her  teeth  in  pain  and  clenched 
her  hands  to  think  of  a  heaven  where  Violet  must 
for  ever  stand — Yiolet  in  her  white  robes,  with  her 
reproachful,  gentle  eyes,  the  judge  of  the  two  who  had 
wronged  hei*. 

"  And  if,  as  some  think,"  Carlyon  went  on  with  his 
simple  preaching,  "  it  is  to  be  entirely  without  recol- 
lection of  what  has  been  that  we  begin  again — what 
fear  then,  Betty  ?  A  new  life,  a  clean  record — not 
the  end  of  all,  but  the  blessed,  blessed  beginning." 

But  Betty  took  no  consolation.  What  a  mockery 
of  a  heaven  would  that  place  be  where  Harringay  and 
she  would  not  even  know  each  other !  Better  to  have 
him  for  ever  before  her  eyes  suffering  on  his  dying 
bed  than  that ! 

She  thought  how,  even  in  her  childhood,  she  and 
her  little  sisters  had  renounced  their  share  in  the 
heaven  which  her  father  and  the  curate  preached,  the 
heaven  with  the  everlasting  harping,  the  ceaseless 
hymning  of  praise,  the  mixture  of  awe  and  tedium 
which  promised  to  carry  on  their  church  experience 
through  eternity. 

She  thought  of  that  world  of  their  own  making,  but 
which  to  each  of  the  little  Jervoises  had  been  so  real. 
The  world  where  they  were  to  be  for  ever  children, 
for  ever  to  play,  to  laugh,  to  work  in  their  eager,  busy, 
useless  way.  Where  nothing  was  to  go  wrong,  where 


316  THE  CEDAR  STAB. 

the  plants  in  their  gardens  would  not  die  even  if 
neglected,  where  dogs  and  cats  had  not  to  be  punished, 
where  only  people  they  loved  very  much  were  to  come 
in.  The  population  of  lan's  heaven  had  been  lamen- 
tably small. 

There  came,  all  at  once,  to  Betty's  memory,  the 
recollection  of  a  long  forgotten  day  when  she  had 
insisted  that,  of  the  small  and  select  few  inhabiting 
lan's  star,  Ted  Harringay  should  be  one.  He  had 
been  out  of  favor  with  the  others  at  the  time  and  had 
been  refused  admittance,  and  Betty  had  fought  for 
him.  She  had  fought  and  vanquished  Ian,  and  had 
fought  and  not  so  easily  vanquished  Peter,  who  had 
unexpectedly  taken  lan's  part,  and  had  so  gained  an 
immortal  seat  for  her  hero. 

We  smile  with  our  lips  at  the  fancies  and  the  super- 
stition of  our  childhood,  but  do  we  ever  smile  at  them 
in  our  hearts  ?  We  grow  wiser  as  we  grow  less  happy, 
but  the  heaven  that  was  about  us  in  our  nursery  beds 
is  the  one  that,  in  spite  of  our  scepticism  and  our 
better  knowledge,  the  heart  hungers  after  in  affliction 
— it  is  the  one,  thank  God,  into  which  we  look  from 
the  bed  of  death  ! 

So  Betty  repudiated  the  theological  heaven  of  which 
the  curate  spoke,  walking  at  his  side.  She  thought 
she  knew  that  beyond  no  earthly  skies  were  hidden 
the  gates  of  pearl  and  the  shining  streets  of  gold.  She 
scorned  the  idea  that  the  men  and  women  she  had 
loved  would  be  set  to  perpetual  flying  hither  and 
thither,  chanting  their  endless  songs.  It  was  impos- 
sible so  to  picture  them,  and  she  was  glad  it  was 
so. 

But  this  heaven  of  her  childhood — the  heaven 
where  Ian  waited  in  scarlet  pinafore  and  sunbonnet, 


CONCLUSION.  317 

with  Paulie  in  her  arms — the  heaven  where  Ted 
Harringay  thanks  to  her,  little  Betty  Jervois.  was  to 
have  a  place — oh,  that  this  were  possible  I 

They  had  wandered  round  and  round  the  garden, 
passing  now  this  green  path,  now  that  gravel  walk, 
the  scent  of  mignonette  and  sweet  night-stock  pursu- 
ing them  with  a  relentless  overpowering  fragrance 
which  ever  after  seemed  to  Betty  mysteriously  one 
with  that  night's  sorrow.  Carlyon,  thinking  that  her 
steps  faltered  a  little,  and  that  she  was  weary,  led  her 
to  sit  upon  the  long  garden  seat  placed  outside  the 
library  window. 

Before  them  was  the  barn,  the  huge  cedar  tree,  its 
sharp  outlines  black  and  sombre  against  the  soft  dark- 
ness of  the  sky.  Betty's  head  fell  backwards,  her  eyes 
traveled  wearily  from  straight  black  branch  to  straight 
black  branch,  motionless  in  the  breathless  night. 
Above  them  shone  clear  and  radiant  a  star. 

Bill,  watching  her,  saw  presently  the  hardness  of 
her  face  soften,  saw  the  feverish  pained  eyes  grow 
dim  with  tears,  saw  the  painful  line  of  the  tightly 
locked  lips  quiver  into  tremulousness  and  lovableness 
again. 

She  put  her  hand  on  Carlyon's  arm  and  without 
moving  her  eyes  pointed  solemnly  upward. 

"  Oh,  look,"  she  said,  "  The  Cedar  Star  1 " 


THE    END. 


t  dotht  $1.2$ 

THE    MASSARENES 

By  OUIDA 

ACTHOR  OP 

'  TCTOER.  TWO  FIJUJS,"   "  WANDA,"  KTC. 

"The  finish  of  the  story  is  as  artistic  as  is  that 
of  'Vanity  Fair'  "-N.  Y*  Journal. 

' '  Ouida  in  her  old  age  has  written  her  best  book. ' ' 
— Evening  Sun. 

^  "  It  is  the  strongest  she  has  written  with  the  pos- 
sible exception  of  'Under  Two  Flags. ' " — N.  Y.  Press 

"  Ouida  beats  them  all;  her  latest  story  is  mprj 
wicked  than  those  of  the  modern  sensationalist, 
and  better  told. — Chicago  Journal '. 

"  In  some  respects  the  ablest  of  all  her  books. " — 
N.  Y.  Herald. 

"There  is  not  a  dull  page  in  the  novel. " — Boston 
Gazette. 

*'  Ouida's  stories  are  never  dull,  and  this  one  is 
quite  as  lively  as  any  of  the  others." — Army  and 
Navy  Register. 

"  She  has  not  lost  any  of  her  cynicism  nor  any  of 
her  skill  to  weave  a  seductive  plot." — Boston  Globe. 

"There  is  a  distinct  moral  purpose  running  all 
through  the  book,  a  purpose  which  it  will  be  im- 
possible for  the  most  careless  reader  to  overlook. " 
— 7%e  Beacon,  Boston. 

"  A  clever  story  of  English  high  life  as  it  is  re- 
presented to-day." — The  Bookseller. 

"A  decided  story-interest  and  some  clever  char- 
acter drawing." — The  Outlook. 

"  Katherine  Massarene  is  drawn  with  a  skill  that 
makes  her  one  of  the  best  female  characters  that 
'  Ouida'  h°s  given  us. " — Public  Opinion. 

Nsw  tfoRK:  R.  F.  FENNO  &  COMPANY 


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